Chapter 12: A Trip That Wouldn’t Have Been Necessary in 1970

I wandered into the Chattanooga Trailways station with no specific plan. It was early afternoon. It was hot outside and it was unclear to me whether the station purported to be air conditioned or not. The only one ticket agent on duty did not appear to be an energetic man. The line of people waiting to talk to him was long and the walls were painted a strange green. The station smelled of stale cigarette smoke and diesel exhaust. When my turn came I told the ticker clerk I was headed for Atlanta. He told me I had options. I could leave in an hour and get there at ten or leave in three hours and get there at five. I took the latter. That gave me three hours to kill.

Three hours is a surprisingly long time if you have few plans and nothing to do. I also realized the three hours in which I had nothing to do while waiting on the bus were to be followed by three more hours in which I had nothing to do on the bus.

I spent a dime on a Chattanooga Times and then visited the station diner for a patty melt with grilled onions. I lingered at the counter for fifteen or twenty minutes after eating, enough time to complete the crossword puzzle, the Crypto quote, and the Jumble. I paid and went back to the waiting room and re-read the paper thoroughly, learning that someone named John Dean was testifying to the Senate about President Nixon, that my classmate Ricky Snopes had been arrested on suspicion of murder , and that another classmate, Gaylon Martin, was selling his car. From the Sports section I learned that the Dodgers were doing well but not great and that the American League now had something called a Designated Hitter. I couldn’t figure out what it was a Designated Hitter did. I really hadn’t been paying attention since I went out on the road.

Having thoroughly digested the paper, I had slightly less than two hours until the bus left for Atlanta.

I went back to the shop and bought Time, Newsweek, The New Yorker, and The New Republic. None had crossword puzzles.

By the time I boarded the bus I had a growing realization that President Nixon was in trouble because of something called Watergate.

I really hadn’t been paying attention.

The bus finally arrived and I got to Atlanta without cooking too much in boredom. When I got there it was still light and about ninety degrees, so I decided to take a cab to the train station. The cab rank was easy to find—short but right outside the station. My bag was so small I it into the back seat ahead of me and slammed the door behind me as I sat. The cabbie eased into traffic using the side-view mirror but without turning his head to check. “Where to?” he asked. His cab smelled strongly of nicotine, and he was listening to the Braves game on the radio.

“Terminal Station,” I said.

“You mean the train station?” he asked.

“You got it.”

“Can’t,” he answered.

“You have some prejudice against trains?”

“No. You can go wherever you want. But they tore down Terminal Station two years ago. It’s gone,” he answered.

“Why?”

“Amtrak,” he said.

“The Nixon train deal?” I asked.

“Yeah. When he’s not busy pulling out of Viet Nam, he’s concentrated on fucking up passenger rail. So where to?”

“Union Station, then,” I said.

“Sorry pal. Gone too. Last year. Same deal. The only place around here you can catch a train is Brookwood.”

“Why?”

“Amtrak,” the cabbie said. “The railroads were all losing money and wanted to shut down all passenger rail service, so Mr. Nixon, sweetheart that he is, turned it all over to Amtrak. You wanna go to Brookwood?”

“How far is it?” I asked.

“Not far. We’re almost there.”

“Okay. Let’s go.” There was a pause during which I heard a few pitches from the Braves game on his radio and he negotiated Atlanta traffic. I thought about asking him to take me to the Varsity for a chili dog, but wasn’t sure how far it was.

“You follow baseball?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure,” the cabbie answered.

“What’s a Designated Hitter?” I asked.

“The ruination of all that is holy,” he answered.

“Can you be more specific?”

“An abomination unto the Lord,” he said.

“How does it work?” I asked.

“Imagine the most fucked up thing in the world, and then fuck that up a lot more, and then put Atlanta traffic planers in charge of it, then translate it into Urdu.”

“Yeah, but how does it work?” I asked.

“It takes the game of baseball and fucks it up completely,” he answered.

“You may not realize it, but you give off a faint vibe of criticism about the Designated Hitter idea,” I said.

“That’s the most stupid fucking rule to be added to the stupid fucking rule book in the history of the whole fucking game. What those fuckers were thinking about is fucking beyond me. It’s something only a bunch of rich asshole owners who don’t want to retire fuckers who can still hit but who can’t field worth a shit could come up with and it’s the stupidest fucking thing in the world.”

“So how’s it work? I’ve been out of touch,” I said.

“Okay. In the American fucking League, The line-up can include one player who bats but does not otherwise take the field, and one player who takes the field but does not bat.”

“Why?”

“More runs.”

“So I’m guessing it’s always pitchers?” I asked.

“Always,” he answered.

“If you change the pitcher, do you have to change the designated hitter, too?”

“No. You can change the pitcher nine times, DH says put. Lineup card never changes except for the pitcher spot, which isn’t in the batting order, so the manager can do whatever he wants.”

“Can you still use pinch hitters?”

“Yeah. Only you don’t need them so much because the pitcher never bats.”

“And this is only in the American League?”

“Yeah. National League wouldn’t go for it,” he answered.

“So what are they going to do in the World Series? Designated Hitter or no?”

“DH in the American League parks, no DH in the National League parks.”

“This is stupid,” I said.

“I told you it was fucked up.”

“Okay, what’s Watergate?” I asked.

“Another Hungarian cluster-fuck. But you’re here at Brookwood, and I can’t wait around. Three bucks.”

I paid and left.

Brookwood Station was tiny. If that’s what it was. All the signs were marked “Peachtree Station.” It was right next to a freeway, ant the train tracks were way down below at the bottom of what might be the longest staircase I’ve ever seen.

There was one redcap standing outside, smoking a cigarette and ignoring the world around him in favor of an elaborate inner dialogue that involved demonstrative hand gestures. I passed him and entered the station house, which was about the size of a sub-development ranch split-level. Remember, this was Atlanta, proud city of over a million inhabitants. Its only train terminal was the size of our house in Chattanooga. It just didn’t seem right. Atlanta should have something like Penn Station. But no. It had a brick cottage with a long staircase.

There was one ticket agent on duty, head propped on hand, reading a Penthouse magazine with no apparent sense of impropriety, let alone shame. He seemed to know I was there, but left me alone while I looked at the schedule. It looked like the next train through was the Crescent, departing just before ten.

“So if I buy a ticket to Spartanburg but get off at Greenville, can I use the rest of the ticket later?” I asked. He gave up his study of a naked teenaged girl reluctantly but without protest.

“Yeah, sure,” he said. There was a pause. “Sir,” he added, as an afterthought. I was younger than he was, so he forgot. “You can get a voucher you can apply to a future ticket or a cash refund.”

“Cool,” I said. “Gimme a ticket to Spartanburg. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What is Amtrak?” I asked.

He thought a few seconds. “Can’t tell you, sorry. I just don’t know. It’s Federal, but that’s all I know,” he said.

“So your paycheck comes from the Federal government?” I asked.

“It’s from Amtrak. Whether that’s the Federal government or not, I couldn’t tell you. All’s I know is, it clears.”

“What happened to the Southern Lines, and the L&N, and the Atlantic Coast Lines?”

“Couldn’t tell you. When I got home from Viet Nam there was an ad in the Journal saying Amtrak was hiring, and I applied. That’s all I know.”

“Thanks. Army or Marines?” I asked.

“Army.”

“How was it?”

“Fucked up,” he answered. “Did you go?” he asked.

“No. Didn’t get drafted.” I shrugged.

“What was your number?”

“72.”

“And you didn’t get called?”

“Nah. War’s winding down. Or so they tell me.”

“Jesus. Is that fucked up, or what? My number was 159. I thought I was going to skate,” he said.

“Well, glad you made it back, bud. Is there a magazine store or a book store anywhere around here?” I asked.

“Not really,” he said. “There’s a drug store with a magazine rack two blocks down.”

I never found it. The result was that I more or less memorized my magazines.

I caught the Crescent towards the Carolinas just before ten.