That's What I Call Commuting

A Ride on the Wild Side

He was a well dressed man who was a bit late to catch his morning train to Chicago. He arrived at the station just as his train was leaving.

He checked the schedule. The next train did not stop at his station. And the next one would be about an hour later. That train was a local that made all the stops so at best he would arrive at the office an hour and a half later than normal. He thought through the three appointments he would miss with a feeling of dismay.

Suddenly he had a very resourceful feeling. There was a slow moving freight train on the second track. If he could hop on board, get off at the next station upstream, catch the express – the one that would blast through his station – and get downtown just a few minutes late.

As soon as the man got on the flat car of the freight train, the engineer got the signal to proceed at normal speed. As he passed the station where he planned to get off, the train was moving way to fast to even think of jumping off.

It was a fall morning. The temperature was about 35 degrees and the sun was shining. The pin-striped suit and the navy trench coat (without the liner) had seemed quite appropriate for the simple commute to Chicago. But as the speed of the train began to increase the clothing proved totally inadequate.

The train he had chosen was primarily made up of trailers carrying mail to the West Coast. That meant this was the “hottest” train on the east-west line. Every effort was made to keep this train moving at the maximum authorized speed.

This train would run most of the trip between 60 and 70 miles an hour. That point if not the reason for it became painfully obvious as the train passed his intended station and shortly thereafter, the last of the commuter stations. Any hope of getting off the train faded and for the next three hours he experienced such intense pain from the cold wind that he lay huddled in a heap, desperately praying that the train would get wherever it was going and stop so he could get off.

After the train rumbled over the Mississippi River Bridge, it began to slow considerably. This was the place where the next crew would take over.

He had enough presence of mind to realize that the train was now moving slowly enough that he could get off. But he did not factor in the effect of the cold on his legs. So as he left go of the train, his legs gave out and he tumbled head over heels on the rocks and gravel of the track bed. He lost a shoe. His suit was shredded. And he was bleeding from dozens of cuts and abrasions.

That is how the Clinton, Iowa police found him a few minutes later. They had been waiting for him to get off after receiving reports from passing trains that there was a vagrant on one of the cars. The looks of this guy confirmed their impression. They arrested the man and put him in jail.

He kept trying to tell his story to the officers. But with each telling, his story sounded more bizarre and unbelievable. He finally convinced them to let him make a phone call to his wife.

But she was even more skeptical than the officers. No one she knew would ever do something that stupid. Her level headed, easy-going, never take a chance husband was clearly not the person she was talking to. She hung up on him.

The dejected man returned to his cell.

A few minutes later, however, his wife called back. She had called his office and discovered that he had not come into work. In fact, one of his co-workers had seen him walking from the parking lot as the train left the station.

They called the man to the phone and his wife was finally convinced that the man, in fact, was her husband.

Now, she had to find out where Clinton, Iowa was. He had driven their only car to work, the kids were coming home from school in another hour, they had a parent/teacher meeting that evening. A trip to Clinton, Iowa was clearly not in her plans.

But around 5:00, she was in the car headed across the state. I only wish that I had been there to witness the reunion.

Over the next several weeks, the story grew richer with each telling.

One morning in the vestibule of an inbound train, a banker was telling the story to a few of his friends. They laughed at the poor guy’s misfortunes and tried to guess the reaction of their wives to such a phone call.

One man, who had been quiet through out the telling of the story, finally said, “I don’t think that is funny at all.”

The banker looked at him with a perplexed look on his face. Finally, the look changed to one of understanding. Softly, he said, “It was you, wasn’t it?”

The man slowly nodded.

And the Public Address System announced our arrival in Chicago.