James sat in the Elk Loungesque L.A. train station of wood on wood crunched on the grandly masculine but lumbar lacking seats which provided suitable pause if waiting for a train arriving within the hour, but became a crusade-like torture device for the twenty hour layover he was currently enduring.
While hunched over with laughter in the corner of the waiting room, he had a familiar moment of embarrassment from the inability to control his laughter while simultaneously worrying about containing both his bowels and his bladder. He knows it’s L.A., but he’s almost positive Mexicans in hysterics defecating themselves in the corners of any lounge where and entire ecosystem has been obliterated for architectural achievement is still frowned upon.
Such was the effect from his favorite humorist, David Rakoff, who passed away just weeks before the death anniversary of James’s own father… and from the same disease.
He hasn’t trained many places in his life, though he dreamed of them often. He writes about them because people in wait seem to pause in time and vibrate in one place just or a bit… anticipating, expecting, coping with minor disappointment when the train arriving isn’t theirs.
People came and went, pictures were taken, trinkets were purchased, trash was lost, luggage collected, and shuffles of small children went about their day. Come the evening, peace. In quiet subtlety the tepid air turned chill and the stillness of the grand expanse of the train station gave him a feeling of insignificance.
People with HIV can be so weird sometimes.