Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun (5 page)

I looked down. My bag of tats was nearly empty. By the time I left the hotel to continue my drive to Fort Madison, I looked like a sixty-six-year-old carney worker. I’ve never been more pleased.

The five-hour drive from the Minnesota border to Fort Madison, Iowa included learning the fine art of applying manure. I love talk radio when I am on the road, not the kind featuring raging pundits, but local call-in stations where folks rant about traffic in a town with a population of two hundred or rattled on for hours about the problems with begonias. Nowadays, the most popular shows are radio yard sales where callers announce personal items for sale on the air.

The radio host asked, “Caller Seven, what do you have to sell today?”

An elderly lady responded, “I have a pair of white Venetian blinds, fifty-four inches long. There’s a dent or two but they work. I’d like five dollars for the pair.”

“And your phone number is ….”

And Caller Seven
actually
responded with their phone number for
everyone
in the county to hear. The city girl in me reeled at their
naiveté
. The mystery author in me began plotting … “
A psycho listens to the radio station. He hears the venetian blind pitch. He thinks if he had those venetian blinds he could kill someone with the cord. He wants those Venetian blinds no matter what. Maybe he’ll even kill stupid Caller Seven for being so naïve. Maybe he’d even use the venetian blinds to do so ...
”

Fortunately, another item a caller was selling caught my attention. I forgot about my extraordinarily amateur plot featuring a psycho who wanted window decoration to do his dirty work.

After hours of listening to one station after another, I turned off of Highway 218 South onto a shortcut I discovered a few years ago. On a two-lane country road, I meandered past sprawling farms, garage sales, churches, and hopeful B&Bs located in the middle of nowhere.

When I reached the Mississippi River town of Fort Madison, I pulled into the parking lot at the city’s library. I raced inside and used their Internet access to check my email. Once on board the Southwest Chief, I would not have access to the Web for thirty-six hours or more. As soon as I was finished, I rushed to the station.

The Amtrak station is located at the Burlington Northern Santa Fe freight yard. The connecting buildings belonged to the BNSF railroad, along with the majority of the parking lot spaces. I arrived at least an hour early to secure a parking spot, whose availability varied depending upon the amount of workers on the freight line on any given day. Parking is free for Amtrak riders and a safe place to leave a car for weeks on-end. Railway bulls, age-old slang for a railroad’s company security guards, roam the property twenty-four seven.

I pulled into the lot and squeezed into a narrow spot, wedged between two dented pickups. Reaching into my purse, I removed a twenty-dollar bill and placed it along with a spare car key into the glove box. If I end up leaving Vegas penniless, or manage to lose my car key, though it will be safely pinned to the inside of my purse, I’ll be able to get back home.

I stepped out of the car and popped open my trunk, grabbed the small duffle bag and hung it over my shoulder. I lifted out my wheeled luggage. Clicking the key fob, I heard a double
beep-beep
, assuring me the car was completely locked. I checked the doors just to make sure. Eventually, after only four repeats of the same beeping and checking, my OCD retreated into the background and I could walk away. I headed past dozens of cars to reach the red brick building.

“Good evening,” I said to the railroad attendant behind the counter. I handed her my ticket and driver’s license. I knew the drill. “Is the train running on time?”

“It’s twelve minutes late,” she answered.

I knew that figure could change at any time, making the train even later. “Is it full?”

“Always,” she said. “It’s spring break and then there are the Amish heading to Tijuana, Mexico, for medical treatment.”

The Amish community rejects medical insurance as being part of the secular world. The elders of the church have managed to secure bottom line medical prices in Mexico for their fellow believers, assuring the Mexican providers that their fellow Amish brethren not only paid in cash, but rarely sued for malpractice. After all, the outcome is totally in God’s hands. And what sense does it make to sue God?

The train station’s waiting room had three rows of eight chairs, a water fountain, and a pay phone. Old magazines were scattered on a low table, along with a few coloring books for kids. Amtrak route guides and brochures filled a metal rack. The room’s large windows looked out over railroad tracks that ran parallel to the Mississippi River.

Ten minutes later an Amish family consisting of a young man and woman and two small children arrived. Shortly later, another set of Amish men shuffled in.

One by one, three older non-Amish women showed up, pulling their luggage behind them. The Amish sat isolated in the corner. The three women and I chatted about our destinations.

“Where are you heading?” I asked the woman wearing a matching pink hoodie and sweat pants.

“To see the grandkids in St Louis. And you?”

“I’m getting off at Los Angeles but continuing on to Las Vegas,” I informed the trio.

No one asked me why I was making such an arduous trip by train. Each of us probably rode the train for the same good reason. It stayed firmly planted on God’s good earth, unless of course, it tumbled off the side of a mountain.

“How long does that take you?” the eighty-some year old asked. She stood bundled up in her grey winter coat.

“Forty-four hours,” I answered. “Thirty-six hours to L.A. Then Vegas is another seven-hour shuttle ride. But …,” I hesitated to get into it, but I plowed ahead anyway, “I do have a car rental reservation in case I decide to drive from L.A. to Vegas, instead of riding on the shuttle. It’s quicker.”

Way quicker. I’ve driven the two hundred sixty miles from Union Station to Las Vegas in four hours. But, this time, I had no idea if I’d have the energy to make the drive. I didn’t know how I would feel physically, once I made it to Los Angeles. I’d wait and see before I made any decision.

Each of us continually checked our watches. The train was now thirty-three minutes late. Finally, the attendant’s voice boomed over the intercom, “The Southwest Chief will be arriving in six minutes. Please bring your luggage and meet me outside the building. I will show you where to stand on the platform.”

The railroad attendant pointed me in the direction of the far west end of the platform while directing the others in the opposite direction. The coach seats were at the rear of the train, the first class cars at the front. The observation car and the dining car separated the two types of travelers.

I’m a slow walker, so the train arrived before I reached my “stand here” mark. My sleeping car attendant was aware ahead of time that I was getting on board. From inside, he placed a metal step outside the doorway and then stepped outside. He waved at me from the distance.

“You must be Miss Dennis,” he remarked as I finally reached him. He took my two pieces of luggage and hoisted them on the train.

“Yep,” I nodded, and with his help, climbed on board.

∞

“I’ve made a dinner reservation,” my car attendant announced as he took hold of my wheeled luggage and slid it into the storage area. “You can go to the dining car as soon as you’d like.”

A reservation is required in the dining car for both lunch and dinner. Seating is done in fifteen-minute increments, the last taking place at 8:00 p.m.

“Thanks, Tom,” I answered, taking the time to read his nametag. “Can you make my bed as soon as I go to dinner?”

“No problem.” He pointed at my duffle bag. “You need help with that going up the stairs?”

“Nah,” I answered. “One more thing, I’d like my bed down the entire way.”

“All righty,” he answered without a hint of surprise.

A lot of passengers prefer to travel like I do, with the bed opened for their entire trip. My legs are stretched out in front of me. My junk is piled all around. I lean back on fluffed pillows. I am so comfortable in my room on Amtrak that at home, when battling insomnia, I visualize an Amtrak roomette, warm and cozy as the movement of the train rocks me to sleep.

I gingerly climbed up the metal stairs to the upper level as my duffle bag slammed into the stairwell walls. My roomette sat midway down the corridor. I opened the door and placed the luggage on one of the two seats. A total of ten roomettes are on the upper level. We share one toilet. The five bedroom compartments on the same level each have a toilet in their room. On the lower level are four additional roomettes, a shower room, two more toilets for general use, a family bedroom that sleeps up to four, and a handicapped accessible bedroom with its own toilet.

According to the Amtrak website, a roomette is three feet wide by six feet six inches long. On each end is a high back, fabric seat which folds down into a bed. The upper berth is locked into place, allowing for headroom when sitting. The berth remains in that position until it is unlocked and lowered by the attendant, allowing a passenger to climb up into it to sleep.

For me the lower bed, comprised of the two chairs unfolded, is extremely comfortable. I’ve shared a roomette twice, once with my husband and one time with a female friend. Both times my fellow riders hated sleeping in the roomette.

The upper berth is two feet wide, six foot two inches long. The headroom is extremely limited. My husband is six feet tall and broad shouldered. To him, lying on the bed felt like a coffin. Surprisingly, my much shorter friend despised it as well. A frequent rider on European trains, she was surprised at how uncomfortable and scary Amtrak berths were. In Europe, the stepladders are built into the design of the berth, making the climb far easier. The ladder was also something one could hold onto for support in mid-air. The fact that she had to hoist herself up, while standing only on an armrest, wasn’t the only issue with the sleeping arrangement. Once she was on top, she couldn’t turn
over unless she used her hand to turn her body. Because she tosses and turns in her sleep, she was constantly being jolted awake all night by her forced movements.

The other thing that flabbergasted her was the lack of a guardrail. Only a few straps hung from the ceiling and hooked into the bed frame, supposedly providing protection from tumbling out of bed and crashing onto the floor five feet below. Like my friend said, it is a balancing act to get your ass into bed, much less stay there.

Fortunately, for this trip, I had the room all to myself. I didn’t have to worry about seeing a body tumble down from above when I slept.

I rummaged through my luggage a bit and headed to the dining car, two sleeper cars behind me. As I walked the narrow aisle, the movement of the train shifted me from side to side. I used my hands on the walls to steady myself and prevent falling head first on to the carpet. The rail line is notoriously bumpy once the train crosses into Missouri. It doesn’t settle down again until Western Kansas.

The train had a total of three sleeper cars, including the one for employees. As I passed through each car, I pressed a button that opened the next door. Eventually I stood at the entrance to the dining car, waiting to be noticed by the dining car attendant.

When dining on Amtrak, you’re assigned a seat at a particular table. Dining is served community style. Who, or how many, you end up sitting with at a table is the luck of the draw. A single table sits up to four people.

Talkative riders filled the car. The attendant gestured to the booth on his right. Three people were already seated at the table. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was given the outside seat, directly on the aisle.

As a big, and sometimes bigger woman, fitting into an Amtrak booth can be an issue. When I weighed an astonishing forty more pounds, my belly not only reached over the table as I squeezed painfully into the booth, but it took the tablecloth with it upon my departure. For the rest of that trip I ate alone in my roomette. Having meals delivered by the car attendant is an option for first class passengers. However, it is not something I prefer to do. I enjoyed the company of strangers more than myself.

I slid into the bench seat and said, “Hi, I’m Pat.”

The others followed suit with their own introductions. Community dining serves up conversation as well as food.

“I’m Harold, this is Edith,” said the man seated across from me. His wife sat demurely besides him.

“I’m Tim,” the large man on my right added. If either Tim or I weighed just one pound more each, we’d never be able to sit next to each other. If he were left-handed, we’d be fighting for elbow space just to cut our meat.

The car attendant held out a menu to me. He asked, “Would you care for something to drink first?”

Amtrak serves a variety of cocktails, beer and wines. However, the cost of an alcoholic beverage is not included in the first class package.

“Just water,” I answered, suggesting with a wave of my hand that I didn’t need the menu. “I already know what I’m ordering.”

I’d memorized the calorie count of every item on the menu. Online, Amtrak posted the Southwest Chief menu and nutrition information. I aimed to keep my calories under 1,700 for the day. With a bit of luck, considering all the walking I’d do once I hit Vegas, plus the hours of finger aerobics at the slots, I might lose a pound or two by the end of the trip.