Cap Man

By Linda Farmer

The cap man sits in pensive pose outside Union Station, perched on a hard, straight chair, eyes staring ahead into the dawn but his gaze longingly southward, a starched silhouette in hues of blue and gray. One foot propped upon the curb, his hand cradles his chin and his heart holds hopes of better days. Watching passengers board, he knows well what they are feeling, for they have told him on countless runs. Their emotions range from giddy excitement at reunions of new loves, old friends, and shamelessly spoiled grandchildren to the quiet angst which strains the face of the business travelers. His own emotions have been numbed, leveled and washed away like so much storm debris. The cotton railroad cap cocked upon his head bespeaks his life’s work, conducting along Amtrak’s Crescent route from New Orleans to New York. It is a trip he takes over and over again, though now only in his mind.

“You’re so stubborn, Dad! Please come and live with us. We have plenty of room.”

“No, thank you, baby girl. I’ve been makin’ my own way for the past 60 years. I’ll be fine.”

“But what will you do? There’s nothing left of your home and now your job has played out. Anyway, you know you could have retired six years ago. Why not stay here?” his daughter pled with him last October.

But the cap man just smiled. Though a clapboard house in the Ninth Ward had been his address, he knew he’d never feel more at home than with rails rumbling beneath him. And he still travels there, though mostly in his mind:

“Sli-dell! Pick-e-yune! Hattis’burg!” he announces as the massive engine screams to a stop at each of the stations along the early part of the journey. Folks are settling in, enjoying a second cup of coffee or a muffin, having boarded before breakfast. They’ll reach Birmingham in early afternoon, Atlanta by nightfall, and D.C. at 9:50a.m. Exactly. Mid afternoon of the second day brings the final destination, New York/Penn Station. From New Orleans to New York, he knows the schedule well; his life used to revolve around it. Now his life revolves ever so slowly around the stations. One day he will again reach the end of the line. But not today.

He was gone when Katrina came to take his home away, staying over with his daughter in Baltimore when weather reports confirmed the worst. And when he finally saw New Orleans again, he knew it would never again feel as comforting as his home on the rails. So now he sits, cap perched on his head, greeting passengers as they travel along the Crescent line.