Chapter 6: Retreat and Recovery

I figured, since it’s rare to go home and see my family, it’s better to avoid trouble. So I said to the conductor, "I’d like to upgrade my seat. I’m also going to Chicago. Can you check if there’s an empty seat all the way there?"

My words came out rushed, pleading. I was ready to pay just about anything for peace and quiet.

Before the conductor could reply, the man jeered, "Oh, want to upgrade now? That’s rich. If you’ve got so much money, why’d you buy coach?"

His voice dripped with mockery, loud enough that the college kids two rows up exchanged looks. I felt my face flush, not with shame, but with the anger of being mocked for wanting something better.

I didn’t want to argue. The conductor quickly checked the ticket machine and finally said apologetically, "There’s no seat in business class. It’s Memorial Day weekend, tickets are really hard to get. If you want to upgrade, only first class is available."

She held up her scanner, the blue light blinking. I did the mental math, the numbers making my wallet ache. I felt stuck—trapped between principle and practicality.

I hesitated—I couldn’t afford first class.

A sigh slipped out before I could stop it. That kind of money was for people who didn’t have to think twice—CEOs, consultants, maybe the Instagram influencer in car two.

Coach is over $60, business class over $100, first class is $300.

Three hundred bucks was almost half a paycheck, gone in a flash. I thought about my rent, the groceries, the plans for the weekend—pizza with the guys, maybe a round of bowling. All of it felt suddenly fragile.

Spending $300 for a few hours? My income isn’t that high.

I shook my head, a bitter smile on my lips. No way was I blowing that kind of cash just to escape a jerk.

I could only sigh and say, "Forget it."

The words felt heavy, the resignation settling into my bones. Sometimes, you just have to let go.

Hearing this, the man jeered even more loudly, "Trying to act rich and failed, huh? Weren’t you going to upgrade? Go to first class then. No money, what are you pretending for?"

He laughed at his own joke, the sound ringing out like a dare. Even the conductor winced, her lips pressed in a thin line. I kept my eyes on the floor.

His words were so nasty, even the conductor couldn’t stand it. She pointed to a seat three rows ahead and said to me, "You can sit there for now. That seat will be empty for a while. Just move back when someone comes. Can you two calm down?"

Her tone was firm—no more room for argument. I glanced at the empty seat, grateful for even a temporary escape.

I thought about it and agreed.

Sometimes you have to pick your battles—and sometimes you just need a breather. I nodded, grabbed my bag, and slid into the new seat, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

As long as I could get away from this jerk, anything was fine.

The new seat was blissfully quiet, the sun warm on my arm. For a moment, I almost felt human again.

My face burned as I grabbed my duffel. The man’s taunts echoed after me, but I kept my eyes on the floor, willing myself not to snap.

I stood up to change seats. The man was delighted, and even made a show of dancing in public: "Oh, justice has prevailed! The idiot who likes to recline has been driven off!"

He did a little jig in the aisle, drawing stares and a few disapproving shakes of the head. It was childish, ridiculous, but I ignored him. I was done giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.

I didn’t respond—just sat in the front row.

I let my gaze drift across the car, past the rows of strangers all pretending not to notice, and finally allowed myself to relax. It felt like a tiny victory, even if it wasn’t permanent.

Finally, I felt comfortable. I popped in my earbuds and scrolled through my playlist—Springsteen, John Mellencamp, a little Lizzo—anything to drown out the world. I played on my phone for a while.

A couple of push notifications popped up—one from my mom (“Text when you’re close!”), another from ESPN about the Cubs game. I shot off a meme about Amtrak drama. Matt replied, “Shoulda taken Greyhound, man.” The group lit up with laughing emojis and inside jokes about basic training. It felt good to laugh again, even if only for a minute.

On Facebook Messenger, some old army buddies who were driving said they’d pick me up.

They’d gotten off the highway for gas in Joliet, offered to swing by Union Station on their way in. Just knowing I’d see them soon took the edge off.

I chatted happily with them, but the peace didn’t last. Though I avoided him for a few hours, as soon as someone boarded for that seat, I had to return to my own.

The train filled up again outside Springfield, a rush of new faces and voices. I sighed and made my way back, bracing myself for round two.

When I got back, I found the man snoring, fast asleep.

His head lolled to one side, mouth open, the remnants of his movie still flickering on the iPad. It would have been funny if I wasn’t so exhausted.

I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he’d sleep until the end of the trip.

With any luck, I could ride out the rest of the journey in blessed silence. I let myself relax, just a bit.