Caltrain is punctual. If the schedule says the train will arrive at 4:55 p.m., it will be there…. Unless the train has run over someone, which actually happens more frequently than you’d think. After a “strike,” trains in both directions are automatically delayed by about an hour. That’s how much time is required for the coroner to come out, assess the situation, remove the body and clean the blood off the tracks. I don’t know why I’m starting my story with this factoid other than because my English teacher always told me that you should always begin your stories with something that’s going to grab a reader’s attention. That and because death is closely linked with sex. I don’t know how exactly, I’ve just heard people use them together in a sentence before... And while this story isn’t about sex, per se, it is about love and love and sex are closely related.
The evening train has ten cars and always comes to a stop at Lawrence station in the exact same spot every day. Being the creature of habit I am, I always wait in the exact same spot every day, which means if for whatever reason you’re ever looking for me on the train, you will always find me boarding the second car from the front. The car’s entrance is located in the middle of the car, so when you board, you’re faced with the decision of going to the left or right. I always go to the right. Right, I’ve discovered, is a psychologically optimistic direction. Left is more pessimistic. People who go to the right tend to look ahead, or into the future. More often than not, they’re dreamers. People who have the tendency to go left like to look back and relish the past and, on average are more pessimistic.
Once you enter the seating area, there are two seating choices. You can take the stairs to the second level, which consists of a row of single seats on either side of the aisle or you sit downstairs, which consists of a row of double seats on either side of the aisle.
I used to sit in the upper deck, back when I was still happily married to my wife. I preferred the upper deck, because it afforded the luxury of not having to interact with anyone. Upstairs I could relax, not worry about someone looking over my shoulder at what I was doing or engaging me in unwanted conversation. But, when my marriage unraveled, I learned that if I was ever going to meet anyone outside my immediate circle of friends, it might be advantageous to sit in the two-seater section.
Upon entering the lower-level seating area, I typically walk mid-way down the aisle and take an empty window seat on the right-hand side of the car. While this may sound a bit anal, I’m not alone. On any given day, I’ll see at least 20 familiar faces getting on and off between Sunnyvale and San Francisco, and they all get on the same car and all more or less take the same seats.
When the train departs Lawrence, the downstairs section is usually about half full with single people occupying the double seats, then it’s on to Sunnyvale followed by Mountain View. By the time we roll into San Antonio, all of the two-person seats have someone in them and a few have already doubled up. Then the roulette game begins. The upper deck is filled at this point.
And this is also the stop where mystery woman gets on. I refer to her as that, because in the six months I’ve been sharing the train with her, we’ve never had the occasion to actually interact with one another.
Mystery woman is usually the fifth or sixth person to enter the lower level seating area. This suggests I she’s not really competitive. By that I mean unlike other people who line up outside as the train arrives, she doesn’t try to jockey for position to be one of the first people to board. She’s more like, “Whatever, we’re all going to get a seat, there’s no need to crowd… Everyone just chill out.”
Mystery woman almost always wears a beige London Fog-style overcoat, which makes sense, because even in the summer, San Francisco can still be pretty cold in the morning. But in the afternoon, especially if you’re in the South Bay, you don’t want to get caught with a heavy jacket when the sun comes out. What I find a little odd is that most women I know have a wide assortment of coats and try to change them up on a fairly regular basis. Mystery woman appears to have just one coat and she wears it every day. She also has a black non-descript/non-designer handbag, that’s not quite big enough to hold a laptop computer, which leads me to believe she doesn’t work at a high tech company, where it’s practically a requirement to pack a laptop so you can take your work home with you.
As the passengers file in at her stop, it’s fun to watch their eyes darting around the car quickly assessing the open seat availability and trying to determine which person is the least threatening to sit next to… For some reason Indian and Chinese women seem to pick me with the most frequency. Sometimes I’ll get this older Asian gentleman, who for whatever reason plunks down next to me and promptly goes to sleep. He gets off at King Street, the last stop on the line after 22nd , and I’ve had to wake him on numerous occasions so that I can make my way into the isle. If I were a nice person, I would offer to take the aisle seat when he motioned to sit down next to me, which would allow him to get an extra ten minutes of sleep before the train reached his station. But, if I did that, he would probably get used to it and want to sit with me every day. And if that happened, there would be absolutely no chance that mystery woman would ever sit next to me.
What I find strange is that in the six months that I’ve been doing this, mystery woman has NEVER sat next to me. She’s sat in front of me, to the right of me and behind me, but she’s never plopped herself right next to me.
Honestly, I TRY not to give a standoffish vibe… I know I don’t stink. I wear deodorant (not Axel body spray) and a slight hint of Lagerfeld. I dress professionally, button down shirt, slacks, wing-tip shoes… Maybe it’s a subconscious negative pheromone kind of thing I’m unaware I’m giving off.
What’s interesting is that is that mystery woman and I already share a lot of things in common. Like me, she gets off work around the time I do and when she gets to the train station, she always waits in the same spot, which places her in the same car as me. She must be an eternal optimist, because she always chooses to enter the right-hand side of the car. And we both disembark at the 22nd St. station in San Francisco.
If she sits towards the front of the car, I can usually just make out the top of her light auburn hair. There’s nothing really special about it. No streaks or other forms of artificial coloring. It’s a pretty do that’s a little longer than shoulder length. It’s a little bit on the dry side. She obviously doesn’t use any mousse, special gels or artificial coloring. And she never changes her style. Normally, when women have long hair, they keep it that way so that they can do things with it. Put it in a bun, ponytails, braids. Nope, she doesn’t even use accoutrements such as berets, hair pins or scrunchies. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. It’s simple, plain and totally natural. The only thing that concerned me a tad was the way she would occasionally twirl her hair in her fingers… I don’t know if it’s a nervous tick or a symptom of something darker like hidden obsessive compulsive disorder.
Her earrings are practical, usually simple gold or silver studs. Never anything dangly or jangly.
When she’s sitting in the chair directly in front of me, I can just make out her profile and shoulder from the space between the two seats. If I were to explain her looks, I would say she’s girl-next-door pretty. The kind of person you wouldn’t mind bringing home to meet your parents. Not superhot gorgeous, fake and augmented like today’s TV actresses or porn stars. Her eyebrows are darker than her hair and defined. Her sun glasses, which she wears on the top of her head are black and non-descript. When you couple her glasses, thin, longish nose, eyebrows and overcoat, she could pass for a cliché version of an undercover spy.
Her makeup is unobtrusive. If she’s wearing any foundation, it’s not immediately apparent. She uses a little mascara, but doesn’t accentuate her eyes with anything like dark eye shadow or eyeliner. When she wears lipstick, it’s usually a lighter shade of pink.
Her clothes are on the conservative side. She has a nice assortment of cashmere sweaters and blouses that on occasion look a little ruffle-y. Her skirts go down to about the half-way point on her calves. Never shorter. Never longer. Her pants tend to be darker in color. Grays and blacks typically. And they always fit perfectly. Not too tight around her butt, which would give away what types of panties she prefers, and not too loose as to appear dowdy or frumpy.
Her breasts, between a B and C cup are obviously real and hang naturally. She doesn’t flaunt them with low cut tops, nor does she wrap them up tightly and pretend they don’t exist. She knows what she has and is obviously very comfortable with them.
Her legs are a little on the pale side, which is totally understandable when you’re living in San Francisco. San Franciscans aren’t typically a sun-loving bunch… Her neatly-shaved legs have a couple of noticeable purple veins, leading me to believe she’s somewhat of an older woman… I would guess around 35… She’s graceful and walks with purpose. And she never wears stockings or panty hose… But she’s very ladylike… Never sits legs akimbo. She either sits with them crossed or parallel tightly together. Based on her clothes and demeanor, if I were to guess her political affiliation, I would place her on the conservative side of the spectrum.
With regards to her shoes, she has three pairs that she wears most frequently during the week. They’re all snug and rounded at the toes and snap or buckle over the arch of her foot to the other side of the shoe, and they’re always flat. Mystery woman never wears heels or any type of shoe that comes to a point. On one occasion, I dropped my pen on the floor as I was writing in my journal. On this day mystery woman was sitting directly in front of me. When I bent down to retrieve my pen, I was able to see her right foot under the chair and her shoe was dangling off her heel. It was very smooth. Not callused, cracked or yellowed, which would suggest a woman who’s on her feet most of the day.
She’s got a couple of different watches that she alternates between. One looks like a Swatch, kind of funky but still a tad plastic-y. I have no idea what brand the other one is. It’s goldish, but not a Rolex… it looks old-ish, like it could be a hand me down from her mom or grandmother.
With regards to her choice of jewelry, mystery woman doesn’t wear any. No necklaces, unless she tucks it into her blouse top and no rings on her fingers, suggesting the fact that she’s not married… Notice I said, “suggests.” I don’t wear a ring and yet I’m still legally married. She could have a boyfriend (or girlfriend), but I doubt it. If she did, he (or she) would have met her at the station at least once in the months we’ve been taking the train together.
I’ve heard her voice a few times, when she’s sat in earshot of me and either made or received a cell phone call. Her calls are fairly short… a couple of minutes tops. Her conversations are direct to the business at hand… “What time did you want to meet?... Okay… I’ll see you at seven.” She has a soft, feminine voice. It’s not booming like an Oprah but also not timid like a waif. Her cell phone is practical. No fancy features and no data plan.
There have been a couple of times when I’ve gotten close enough to smell her. Usually it was right when we’re pulling up to the 22nd St. station, and we’re all packing up our things and getting ready to disembark… Lining up single file until the doors open to excuse us. A couple of times I’ve found myself standing right behind her. And, no, I didn’t intentionally lean in to get a better whiff of what she was wearing. I could tell from a safe, unobtrusive distance… She doesn’t wear any perfume, but I could detect a faint hint of some type of body lotion. I don’t know the brand, but if you know that lotion-y smell, you know what I’m talking about.
Her hands are well manicured… no fancy stuff, like polish, gloss, French tips, etc. I did notice a little bit of redness around her thumb cuticles. It could be a nervous habit or, like the hair twirling, indicative of something darker. It’s just odd that it’s just around her thumbnails and not around any of her other fingers.
Her choice of reading material is fairly tame; I’ve seen her with a “Savory,” “New Yorker,” and various paperback books with titles and authors I’ve never heard of.
Interestingly, while she does read for a few minutes here and there on the hour long ride, she spends most of her time in quiet solitude. She rarely cranes her neck around to see who else is on the train, she rarely glances out the window and she doesn’t slip on headphones and disappear into the world of iPod. Maybe that’s how she decompresses after a hard day at work… I admire her Zen-like fortitude.
Still, for all I know about this woman, I can’t figure out why I’m so drawn to her… In the months I’ve been taking the train, I’ve never felt this way about any other passenger…. I’ve seen cute girls come and go, but none that I’d remember the next day.
Sometimes when we’re disembarking, she gets off before me. Sometimes I get off before her. Sometimes when we’re walking up the exit staircase from the 22nd St. station to the street, we’ll be right next to each other. Of course I’ll pretend that I don’t even know she’s there. For all I know she could be doing the same thing with me, in which case we would be a truly living-breathing daily Craig's List Missed Connection.
The other day, when we were walking up the steps out of the 22nd St. station, she disembarked ahead of me and walked up the stairs. She looked over her shoulder and when she saw me, her head snapped forward again. And when she saw me her pace seemed to deliberately slow… as though she was waiting for me to pass. I walked next to her for at least a minute pretending to ignore her and we walked up the stairs together side by side… before she ultimately broke right and I broke left at the top of the stairs.
When we get to the street, she goes right, crosses the street and I don’t know where she goes after that. I don’t know if she simply walks home, has a car parked around the corner or if there’s another bus she transfers to, to whisk her to another section of the city. I have no idea where she lives, nor had I ever had the urge to secretly follow her to find out. I break left at the top of the steps to where my motorcycle’s parked and scoot up and over Potrero Hill into the Mission.
In the months we’ve been sharing the train together, there was only one time that paths crossed outside of the train. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was at the Safeway at 16th and Potrero St. picking up supplies for next week’s work lunches. As I rounded the corner into the produce aisle, mystery woman was examining a basket of strawberries that were on sale. As I past her, she looked at me… When our eyes connected, I tried to break the ice with a, “Hey, how’s it goin’?” But her reaction spoke volumes. Instead of smiling and saying, “Hey,” back, She looked left and right and gave me a confused, “Do I know you?” expression.
I ignored her response, smiled politely and made my way to the potatoes.
Epilogue:
Of course that wasn’t the last time I saw mystery woman. I continued to see her on the train every day. When I’ve told my friends this story, they dismiss it as pure infatuation, but I see it as more than that. When she doesn’t get on the train on any given day, I actually get sad and wonder if something’s happened to her.
Truth be told, she actually does know who I am now, and, unfortunately, our initial meeting was not how I had always dreamed. Contrary to what you might think after reading this far, I don’t while away my train time ogling her on a daily basis. More times than not, I use the free time to write in my journal.
The story above this epilog was one of many stories I’ve penned on my commute home. I posted this particular story on my blog and Tweeted it to the Caltrain Tweet list, which consists of a list of regular Caltrain riders who use it to update and get updates as to what’s going on with the train at any given time… Delays, strikes, etc. For fun, I Tweeted “Story about falling in love on Caltrain” and pointed the link to my blog… Well, I guess someone out in the ether read it… possibly a friend of hers? In retrospect, I was probably too literal and liberal with my description of her… The outfits, hair, stops she gets on and off at, jewelry or lack thereof… Obviously somebody clued her into it and forwarded her the link, which ultimately led to our brief encounter. I remember it vividly. It was Friday afternoon and I was gearing up to have a little party at my house that night. Mystery woman got on at her usual stop, slowly walked down the aisle and scanned the open seats to find the least threatening person in the car to sit next to and passed by me. But, like some people have that tingling sense when someone is looking at the back of your head… Well, I suddenly felt it... And mystery woman walked back to my chair. She paused for a moment, looked me up and down and then demurely asked, “Excuse me, did you happen to write the ‘Finding Love on Caltrain’ story that’s currently making its rounds on the Caltrain Tweet list?
“Huh,” I asked incredulously? “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing… There’s a story being circulated about a lonely guy who obsesses over a woman he sees on the train every day.”
My heart about stopped.
“The weird thing is that the woman’s description does sound very close to me. She gets on the same train at the same time and she gets off at 22nd street. Most of the people I see in this car are either reading, listening to music, looking out the window, talking or just zoning out… You’re the only guy I’ve seen mostly scribbling in their notepad.”
All I managed to get out was, “That’s very odd…What’s the link?”
“Pushingthepulldoor.blogspot.com”
I gulped and scribbled my blog site down in my notebook as though I was hearing it for the first time.”
“Thanks, I’ll check it out.”
“Oh, and Rick?”
“Yeah,” I said looking up.
“I Fucking Knew It!”
