I took the Crescent line, New Orleans to Birmingham, on Tuesday and saw the following:
A black Methodist preacher with a mustache and prosthetic leg, which he pulled off and kept next to him when he sat down. He led his congregation of 3 in a prayer for safe travels as the whistle blew and we pulled out of the station.
A sunrise of orange and purple that wiggled through the old pier pylons just off the banks of Lake Pontchartrain.
A Bob Dylan lookalike dressed in vintage jeans, denim jacket, plaid shirt, boots and aviator sunglasses. He carried a guitar over his shoulder and an old briefcase in his left hand. He kissed a tall redhead goodbye in New Orleans and was picked up by a spry blonde in Tuscaloosa.
An old black man with a beautifully large belly and a slight stoop waiving from his crumbling storefront in York.
Two men doubled over the hood of a Chevy outside of Boligee.
A group of half naked children at a birthday party, running through backyard sprinklers in a suburban neighborhood somewhere near Cuba.
A solitary man wearing a Crimson Tide tshirt, hands in pockets, staring at the train from an embankment near some woods, far from anywhere.
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