Last night I met a woman looking gloriously lost in the middle of Union Station. I stopped to see if I could be of any assistance. Much to my delight, when she opened up her mouth, a British accent spilled out, causing my heart to spill all over the floor, naturally.
She marveled at my painted calavera face as I explained to her that today was indeed Dia de los Muertos, and I marveled at her accent and the way her eyes crinkled up around the edges as she spoke. As I walked her to her platform she regaled me with tales of her train ride thus far. A man on her train asked a woman to keep her children quiet, to which my new companion replied “oh fuck off! What do men know about it?” in that brilliant accent, making the phrase even more beautiful. It caught me by surprise, the “fuck off” rolling out so easily from this silver haired, twinkly eyed apparition.
She went on to tell me she had once been a backup singer for Johnny Rivers, and performed at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go where Elvis stopped in- jumpsuit clad and pancake faced, in all his marvelous glory. We reached her platform far too quickly, and I lamented the fact that I would have to leave her here, and not invite her out into the night with us, on this night of all nighs to celebrate living. I wanted to sit down with her over a whiskey and a beer, and dance, and hear more about her adventures. She was a saucy little minx and I’d bet money I’ll remember her for the rest of my days. Two strangers passing through a corridor. I wished her a safe journey to Tuscon, and she floated away, probably never knowing the imprint she left. Or maybe she knew all along. Women like her, the ones that twinkle even in a crowded, brightly lit room… are always aware of their magic.