My Train Hit Someone. The Café Car Announced Happy Hour

“You can read between the lines … but there is someone who is no longer with us a little ways ahead of us on the tracks,” announced the train conductor.

Earlier this month, a man who was threatening to jump from an overpass on Interstate 5 caused a multi-hour freeway closure and major traffic gridlock in San Diego.

Now, I was on a train that shook the hand of death. 

Somewhere between sleep and wake as The Eagles’ “Hotel California” played on loop in my earbuds, I woke up to a dissonant Amtrak intercom chime and these words from our train conductor. Even in my feverish, trance-like state, I sensed we had been still for much too long. 

As I came to reality, instant commotion ensued in the train car. Before the conductor finished speaking and the two-note chime signalled the end of his update, people shot up from their seats and grabbed their overhead bags — “We are stalled here until further notice” — a woman cries out about her son in the ICU who she may not get to see — “The doors are open now for you to step out” — a man grumbles in annoyance how this is the second time this has happened to him — “No trains are coming in or out” — passengers make calls and arrange for their rides to get them directly — “I cannot tell you when we will resume” — the girl next to me translates the situation to an elderly woman — “This is now in the hands of of the LAPD, who must conduct an investigation.” 

My earbuds laid in the palm of my hand still playing “Hotel California,” a premonitory and ominous coincidence, given how the song is about the “dark underbelly of the American Dream.” 

What shocked me wasn’t just the news but the immediacy at which so many people rerouted their plans without a pause to process. We had crossed paths with death, yet people spoke of it as an inconvenience and nothing more.

Then came another Amtrak chime, the air taut with anticipation before a different voice started to speak in a peppy, theatrical tone. “The snack car is now open!” Minutes later, another Amtrak jingle rings again, “I am happy to announce that the café is now open and in-service, and we are doing Happy Hour! You can get two mixed drinks for six dollars or two regular drinks for three dollars. If you will have any alcoholic beverages, please have your ID. Come on up!” I see people move through my car to the café car, to take advantage of the deal, get dinner for later, and perhaps order something to take the edge off. 

Outside my window, I saw the train conductor standing in the cold, giving a hug to the woman who may not get to see her son alive in a San Francisco ICU. She was smoking a cigarette and wore a face of distress. I wondered how the train conductor was doing amidst all the people asking him what happened and when the train would start up again. Did anyone ask how he was doing or check up on him? 

Hours passed. People trickled off the train and found alternative routes to their destination. Continuous intercom updates from the conductor kept us awake as every update seemed to be the same: “This is in the hands of the LAPD. I do not know when the investigation will finish.” One passenger returned with gossip from the officers outside, “I asked if someone died and the cop said that ‘Some people just don’t get along,’ so I guess someone got stabbed.” 

In truth, a woman in her 40s had laid on the tracks and been hit by the Amtrak. As I “read between the lines” of what the train conductor announced, I saw the fragile line between a life moving forward and another coming to an end.

After close to four hours of waiting, the train moved on, as we all did. We silently started moving forward, and at every stop, the train conductor would announce the upcoming stop, caution us to watch our step and hold onto the rails when exiting the train, and expressed thanks for choosing Amtrak. His voice would be framed by the same Amtrak chime, an F to C, that now felt heavier and more haunting than before. The loud chime rang in my ears, echoing the fragility of life. The conductor’s voice became the thread running through the night ― steady, warm, and calming, never once acknowledging the emotional weight and exhaustion he must have been carrying.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the symbolism of it all. On one end of the tracks, was a woman who may have felt invisible, perhaps believing she was an inconvenience to the world. On the other end of the tracks was a train full of us, scrambling around the “inconvenience” of her death. 

Of course, we have places to be. Time is everything. Timing can determine whether we are there for the last goodbye, the birth of a child, a life-changing job interview, or well-rested sleep before an important exam. But our tight schedules do not make us exempt from empathy. We lost time in that delay, but we also lost a life. At the same time, people are not heartless but were perhaps overwhelmed with moral complexity, grasping at normalcy to distract themselves from the tragedy. 

In the end, what stayed with me was not the hours we waited, but rather the silence we never took. Even in a small pause, a moment of recognition and compassion, we can always offer dignity to someone who felt unseen. 

Help is available. You are not alone. Call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline, or chat via 988lifeline.org. 

Julianne Tai is a visiting graduate student in global studies attending University of California, Santa Barbara.