Like scattered glass beneath my feet, the city holds dozens of stories that never make the news. The glass is from numerous fender bender hit and runs on one of Dallas’ busiest corners. It’s a city who prefers not to be on a first name basis relationship.

I can smell the street car burning from the outside in. It never seems to be functioning for several days at a time and, when it does manage to traverse it’s bi-directional existence, it’s never at one hundred percent. Some days, it’s incredibly loud. Others, it’s teeth jarring. The journey itself can’t be more than two miles total, but I’ve already witnessed what could be a dead person on a street corner; wheelchair and all. Zero flashing lights or citizens to offer aid, just traffic as usual.

I’m not trying to scare anyone from exploring major cities in this country, but you should at least be prepared for what you may encounter. “Scary” is a point of view, and differs from individual to individual. Some say I’m fearless. It’s untrue. I’m emotionless; there’s a difference. I’m scared to death of everything and I respect it accordingly.

I’ve crossed the river and entered the near-abandoned urban jungle known as Dallas. I cross Houston street in front of the derelict home of the Dallas Morning News. I’ve lived in the city since just before the pandemic, and I’ve never seen anyone walk in or out of the building.

That staple of journalism sits across from the Dallas main train station, so I observe it often. It’s also across from a decent NY Deli, and any good bit of journalism deserves a hot cup of motzo ball soup. Damn, I miss New York sometimes.

Immediately, I’m bombarded with this morning’s Trumpean nonsense, something about him and Epstein. Assume the worst, America. That way, you’ll rarely be disappointed. What one can do, one will do, and billionaires have endless amounts of will.

You’ll never realize a sizable Jewish community stays in Dallas until you go to get your fix from a knock-off NY eatery, but they’re there. It’s not stirring up too many Brooklyn memories, but they’re there as well. The only person watching presidential poonery unfold is the redneck white guy in disguise. I’m a dead giveaway.

Finishing, I run across the street to visit the public facilities provided by Dallas’ ever-dwindling train hub. This same toilet, out of order and covered with clear plastic, has been inoperable for seven straight years now. If they’re not fixing the toilets, then they’re surely skipping on some bolts here and there. Still, I hesitate not; it’s a train, and a train guy must train. Good stories happen on trains, some of them. I’d like to try and find one of my own again.

The Amtrack platform is covered in Amish people, and I’m struck confused. If they’re not allowed to drive cars, how do they ride trains? I’d ask one of them, but they already appear uncomfortable enough as it is; Handmaid’s Tale outfit and the whole nine. The train’s official biker (who chose not to ride his motorcycle across country; all public transit vehicles are allowed one) already has them cornered, pelting them with questions that could easily be answered with a quick Google search or round of late night reality television. Truly the worst among us reside in the south, my readers excluded. Someone broke that clock in 1865 and the hands haven’t moved since. Only in dreams filled with wishful thinking do we comprehend the types of pseudo-freedoms offered by the ruling class. What better way to see it all than from a seat high above the clickety-clack of the rails? Today, it’s a double-decker, like many I rode through New England. It’ll have to do.

I feel the diesel engine rev up to enough power for moving the rolling missile, and I settle in for a forty-five minute ride to Fort Worth, Texas. It’s for no other reasons than food digestion and writing prompts, but the rhythmic roll of the rails is an obsession which began decades ago. To my right, my city’s phallic landmark tower, a welcome to penile architecture one and all. To my left. a Jamaican guy speaking loudly on his phone and attempting to recruit other members to his scam call center. It’s a good pitch, but I’d never fall for it. He mostly targets the technolgically illiterate elderly.

Now, in walks a gaggle of guys who smell like a Cheech and Chong listening party from back in the gap. Trust me; if I can smell them, they’re loud. Silly me forgot his edible, so this ride will be grasping the straws of this morning’s wake and bake. It’ll have to do.

One of them proceeds to ask every single white dude on the train for a few bucks. Why is he only asking white people? Do we look that approachable? In 2025? In Texas? Also, this train costs money. Other observations are that he’s dressed nicer than me from head to toe. Dress for the job you want, I guess? I’m in my daily costume as well; the Reverend in disguise or the Gonzo Hobo of a public transit system rumored to be built as a means to keep the lower class contained.

It’s just past noon in a gridlocked world outside my window. Hundreds, if not thousands sit irritated within my field of vision, literally inching their way through life. Soon, the sound of idling engines and honking horns disappear into shushed metal upon metal behind the buildings to show me the parts of the city only the sullied few, we rail riders, experience. Automobiles are a status symbol here. I own a car and a truck, and take public transit by choice. I’ve driven all of this country. All. That’s enough driving for one lifetime

As though on cue, an endless ocean of new cars spreads out before me in the high sun, blinding me momentarily. They’re cancers upon this planet, but they don’t operate themselves. We are equally as guilty for her destruction, so I shouldn’t put it all on those metal monstrosities. Ironically, the child rapists who hide among our high society fondle the planet with their spare hands. Power must cloud the peeps judgement when it comes to such things. I’ve never had much power to use in comparison. I’m forever thankful, since my needle has a tendency to lean more towards Sith.

Much to my surprise, the former Jamaican no longer speaks with an accent. He’s quick in the mind; Memaw’s perfect scammer, but folks need to eat. Everything on this planet survives by harming or destroying another, and we are no exception to that rule. I’m not sure what I plan to see on this short trek and I’ve already witnessed what could’ve very well been a corpse. Then, I had lunch. My feet were meant to be here; not always, but at least the latter part of my current life. Every day between the awakening and execution was non-stop struggle. I don’t expect anyone to understand, but it’d be nice. I’m midway through my adventure, both this and life’s, and no one’s come by to check my ticket. Hopefully the creature holding onto the controls of this bullet for dear life is taking his or her job a tad more seriously than the conductors.

Thanks to our federal government’s imminent domain of rail beds, I ride atop rocks that could’ve soaked up the blood of those misfortune travelers who came and went before me in days gone by when nothing but rail travel existed. Every nut is a trip to the past disguised with modern shells. All which changes is flesh, and flesh will forever fail.

The barely touched bottoms and thickets between the two major cities still sit in secret. They’re almost too wicked to tame even with modern gear, and can only be seen by those who lower themselves to the mysteries of intra-city rail. I cut my teeth on such pin-prickety chaos on Long Island, New York, and I orgasmically twitched through every pleasurable moment.

Only by rail can you see them actually suck her dry; our planetary mother, I mean. Our dirty secrets told in the name of progress litter railways, blind to the cars operating a few additional feet beyond the industrial facade. What they can’t hide are the abandoned rail platforms along our route. Suburbs are steadily pulling out of the North Texas public transit game according to the nightly news. If they leave, who will appreciate their abandoned junk yards and rock quarries? It’s artistic, in a way; the stacked junk beyond the ballast. My decade of shadows allowed me to appreciate the imperfections of a shattered windows or carelessly discarded chemical barrels on a neverending quest to poison what we believe is the dominant lifeform abroad.

Before long, my eyes reach the familiar sight of manicured golf courses, announcing to those capable of seeing that the city’s illusion returns to us unscathed. Heads peek from homeless encampments as we provide them with the day’s only break from hard-luck mediocrity. Even the benches on the station platform are built for discomfort. Attempting to rest, let alone sleep on the platform would be a tasteless joke no dissimilar than those who claim to want to help them. Awards are won on paper, not with deeds themselves. It’s smoke and mirrors on auto pilot, but they’re high-dollar mirrors. My preferred method of purchase would be to wait and find them in a second hand store, butt-worn and impotent. Thus are the words of The Gonzo Hobo.

I was told once that “Hobo” was a name for civil war soldiers who were “homeward bound”, but with out the proper fundage to complete their quest bia legal means. My Jamaican co-rider joins me for the return trip. Apparently he “works” here. For ten or so dollars a day, he has a mobile office where the scenery changes often plus wifi. Jamaican accent, American genius. Home of the craftiest actors this side of the penitentiary.

To top it off, I witnessed a DART operator close the doors on an elderly woman and begin dragging her. She would’ve died if not for the other passengers interfering. The operator showed little concern and cursed at the people who saved the lady’s life. Car 149B. They immediately changed drivers when they got to the next stop. No assistance offered to the lady. None.

Dammit, I hate being an eye witness to heartless nonsense.