THE CHANGE - CHAPTER SEVEN

PART TWO - HOW MARTHA MET CHARLIE / THERE WILL ALWAYS BE PEOPLE LIKE ME

PART TWO

HOW MARTHA MET CHARLIE

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 18TH

PORTLAND, OR - LOS ANGELES, CA

SEVEN

The name of the train was the Amtrak Coast Starlight; and true to its name, it was barreling down the Pacific coast corridor, from Seattle to Los Angeles, picking me up along the way.

The total trip was thirty hours, which was why I had to leave a day early. And for the first ten, I mostly sat in my seat in coach: rereading Liam’s book, thinking about my stupid life, periodically drifting off into jumbled dreams, or blankly staring out the window as the scenery swept by.

But by the time night fell, I was getting restless, and the snacks I’d bought at Portland’s Union Station were long gone. So I decided to check out the lounge car, and see what they had to offer.

Turned out I wasn’t alone. The lounge was packed: all the tables filled, with a line ten-deep leading up to the ancient Amtrak mummy working the bar and cash register. After the near-churchlike calm and quiet of the passengers in coach – smothered in the hypnotic constant rumble of the train – the sudden roars of laughter and boisterous conversation were like a shot of psychic adrenalin.

I walked in grinning, took my place at the back of the line, and started people-watching: one of my favorite things to do when not stuck in the Jefferson Mall. Standing there, surrounded by yammering strangers, was the most relaxed I’d felt in ages.

There were a lot of football fans: no surprise, once I realized the season was almost done, and the Rams were contenders, and blah blah blah. They were some of the loudest and drunkest, but also easiest to ignore, because football never meant shit to me.

Then there were the suits, in little clusters of suitdom, or sitting enslaved with their laptop or phone. The ones who were still working on the train made me saddest, their lives entirely hijacked by jobs they didn’t love, working for people they couldn’t stand, to try and hold onto homes they could barely afford, no matter how much extracurricular genuflecting they put in. (And, boy, did that sound familiar!)

But then I heard a voice I recognized, coming through the speakers of someone’s phone. And as I struggled to catch the words, a woman’s voice hollered, “No! Shut up! That’s exactly what he said! Listen!”

That’s when I saw the group of six young hippie-looking people at the table just up to my left. They were watching a video on a phone that belonged to the gorgeous Burning Man-flavored alpha femme of the group. Or at least it was in her hand.

That little screen was filled by the far-too-handsome face of Liam Pathe himself, radiating the kind of high-end, laid-back California cool that I’d normally want to slap. But because I’d read his books, I knew how smart he was. How incisive and passionate. So I gave him a pass, took a ride on his words.

“I want you,” he said, “to imagine a world without war. Without hate. Without lies and deceit. A world where equality isn’t just a good idea, or a noble aspiration, but an active fact of life. Where injustice is a thing of the past. And every single living soul has value.”

At the table, they started to cheer like whipped-up delegates at a campaign event. I rolled my eyes, but I had to admit, their glee was contagious. I smiled, inching closer.

“Then I want you to imagine yourself in that world,” he continued. “Because this Saturday night – when The Change comes, and the planets align – that is where we all are going to be!”

It was an applause line, and it worked: not just for the six at the table, but for roughly a dozen others scattered about the lounge. I was surprised to see how many were hooting and clapping, wondered how many of these people were on their way to see the world change for them, too.

But I was even more surprised when a low voice muttered, from somewhere behind me, “Ahhh, go fuck yourself.”

I laughed out loud and looked around for the culprit: not because I agreed, but because it cracked me up.

Nobody met my gaze. And it didn’t appear to bug Liam, either, because his recording just kept on going.

“I want you,” he said, “to imagine your best self. Your highest self. The person you have always hoped to be. Because that is who you are MEANT to be! And this Saturday night, when we gather together, and The Change -”

“Would you SHUT THE FUCK UP!” That voice again. Louder.

I whirled once again. And this time, I spotted him.

The angry guy who would not be denied sat alone at a table in the back, in a rumpled suit, like a world-weary traveling salesman. He was tall, dark, and haunted, with olive skin and big hands that looked like he had broken things with them. There were three bourbons and one beer nearly drained on the table before him. There were two battered suitcases at his feet. He was staring at his reflection in the window beside him. In the reflection, his eyes were black holes.