The train pulled out of New York and proceeded to pass through every slum in Jersey on its way south. On the way through jungles of garbage and burned-out buildings it picked up speed, reaching its cruising rate of somewhere around seventy miles per hour. Still, it would be a long ride to Orlando.
As soon as they announced the bar car was opened I made my way there, and took up a stool beside a man in a business suit who was obviously looking for something to do. He was a few years my senior and better dressed, but he had that same look of wanton adventure in his face I saw far too many times in the bathroom mirror while shaving. It was time to start the game.
"You look like you do this often," I said to him.
He tilted his glass and drained it. "What? Drink? Every damn day," he said.
I laughed a little. "No," I corrected. "Ride the train."
He waived his empty at the bartender, who immediately refilled it. Johnny Walker Red, straight up. I sipped at my beer.
"Only way to travel," he said. "Planes are nice, they're fast, but you lose the joy of the voyage. The trip is always as valuable as the destination."
Even though he delivered that last part like a quote from a greeting-card-store poster (probably with a picture of a cute kitten to boot), I couldn't agree with him more.
"Besides," he continued, leaning over conspiratorially, as if taking me into a confidence he rarely shared, "it's a lot easier to get laid on a train than in a jet screaming across the sky at God knows what rate of speed."
My eyebrows went up. Not from surprise at the subject, just the rapidity with which we had reached it. Conversations with strange men usually took a good five minutes before the topic of sex arose. I hadn't been clocking us, but I estimated only thirty or forty seconds had passed between us.
"It's the rhythm," he went on. "Does something to women's pelvises. It's the same rocking motion you use when you're tall in the saddle, get my meaning?" I understood him completely. "Makes 'em think about it more. They don't even realize how horny it makes 'em, 'till you got their pants off."
I stared straight ahead, which is to say I stared into nothing, and considered how many other, more genteel ways there were to convey the same idea. Still, I admired his crudeness. It was honest, albeit antithetical to romance. He played no parlor games with euphemistic words cluttering up the conversation. This was going to be easier than I thought.
"I take it you're not married," I said to him.
He showed me his left hand, gold band on the third finger included. "Twenty-one years next month," he said proudly. "Finest little lady I ever knew."
"So," I explored, "you only think about getting laid on trains?"
He nudged my arm. "No, son, I get laid just as often as I can. Trains, hotels, golf courses, you name it, I've done it. But trains are definitely the best. I'm on the road ten months out of every year. If I wait to get home my balls would explode in the meantime." He chugged his drink and laughed softly. "And the Missus is probably getting it on just as often while I'm gone. Can't blame her. What's she supposed to do, sleep with a carrot till daddy gets back?"
The idea birthed interesting visions. I smiled.
"How 'bout you, son, you married?"
I said I was, and showed him my wedding band, too. "Five and a half years," I told him.
He sniffed, indignant. "And I suppose you never had an unfaithful thought the whole time?"
I smiled and sipped at my beer. "I have had many indiscretions," I confessed readily. "But my wife and I have a unique relationship. We are very upfront about our detours."
He studied me. "You tell her when you fuck other women?"
"And she tells me about her men," I said. "We rely on honesty."
He suppressed a laugh. "Honesty will get you nothing but a shitload of trouble," he said. "Take my word. She tells you it's honesty, but she's just loading up ammunition for the big kill."
I knew he was wrong, but let the subject drop. The idea was not to debate some stranger about my lifestyle, but to observe another's technique. Switching gears, I asked him, "So, how do you go about deciding who to go after?"
Bill was glad to be back on top of the conversation. "It's their eyes," he said. "You wanna watch out for wide-open eyes, stay away from them. And eyes that dart about nervously, un-uh, no good. You want eyes that are half closed, relaxed." He scanned the room. "Now, there's a couple of likely young ladies," he said, and elbowed me again. I turned to look where he indicated with a nod of his slightly round head. At the far end of the car two young women sat at a small, round table, sipping something blue from frosted martini glasses. They looked to be more my age than his. One was a stunning redhead, the other a sleek brunette. The redhead was dressed in a white pants suit, the brunette in a floral print dress. They talked the way women do; they become so quickly at ease with each other and delve energetically into sharing confessions, whereas my new-found friend and I were still making verbal parries, feeling each other out.
"Not bad," I said.
"Not bad?" He laughed, more of a guffaw than anything else. "Son, you have high standards. Where I come from, they are Grade A Prime."
"Where's that?" I asked.
"Ohio," he said. "The Buckeye State. Home of some of the ugliest women in the country. That's why I love these East Coast trips. Beautiful women, and none of that California attitude. I have yet to take one of these train rides and not get lucky."
I grinned. "Then I'm glad I ran into you," I said. "I could use some luck in that direction."
