Excerpt from Good Vibrations

Grand Central Terminal, New York City, August 1968

"Your train is leaving on Track 13, sir," the attendant said as he slipped the train ticket across the counter.

Joe grimaced and pocketed it. "Great," he muttered under his breath as he turned to leave. He'd been dogged by bad luck all year, ever since he was shot during the Tet offensive. "Should have taken a plane instead."

He grabbed his duffel bag with his left hand, leaned on his cane with the right one, and headed across the Main Concourse toward the information booth in the center. The place must have been something to see in its heyday, but age and neglect showed everywhere. The huge Kodak sign over the East Balcony blocked the sun and added a note of tackiness. Ditto for the model hawking the latest model Cadillac.

He glanced up at the windows and ceiling high above. His dad had come through here on his way home from WWII and raved about the station. "Don't forget to look at the ceiling," he'd told Joe over the phone just the other day. Joe glanced up, but the mural of the heavens was dimmed by years of grime. Yet another difference between his homecoming and his dad's.

The station wasn't crowded. Hell, the few people there seemed lost in the cavernous space, but he was aware of the stares that followed his slow progress. He hobbled along, back rigid and eyes straight ahead. He hated the stares. Some were merely curious, others hostile. Worst of all was the pity he saw in some faces.

It would have been just as bad at the airport, he told himself. Worse, maybe, since there would be more people and a longer walk. And there was no way in hell he could bend his injured leg enough to sit in an airplane seat. The train should be better.

He hated wearing his uniform in public, but he'd had no choice. Not if he wanted his military discount. Besides, all his civvies were at home in Chicago. Along with his huge family eagerly waiting to welcome their wounded hero home. They'd shower him with love and attention and food until he was ready to scream. He loved the hell out of them, but his loving, smothering family was one of the reasons he'd joined the Army after finishing college.

When he arrived at the gate area, he checked in with the New York Central conductor for his train ticket, then stood in line to check in with the Pullman porter. He'd reserved a roomette, a small second class sleeping room for one person, insuring room to stretch his leg and privacy for most of the journey.

"Do you have any checked baggage?" a porter asked.

"No, just my duffel bag," Joe replied.

"I can take that for you, sir."

Joe handed over the bag and told the porter his room number. He could manage the bag, but the porter probably needed the work. Not many people took the trains any more.

He turned to head toward Track 13 and saw her. It was hard to miss her, from the top of her head, covered with wavy red hair, to the impossibly long legs revealed by her short tan wraparound skirt. His breath caught as he surveyed her. A finer example of American womanhood, he'd not seen in years. She was tall, only three or four inches shorter than his five feet eleven inches. She turned and saw him and smiled. He nodded and smiled back, his heart suddenly racing. Hers was the first friendly face he'd seen all day. He read no curiosity, no hostility, no pity in her expression, just open friendliness.

He headed down the walkway and she fell into step with him, letting the other passengers rush by them. They walked in silence for a few minutes while he tried not to stare at her breasts as they swayed gently with her every step. He was pretty sure she wasn't wearing a bra under the embroidered peasant blouse that had slipped off one shoulder.

God bless America. Land of free love and home of the braless.

© 2006 by Lyndi Lamont

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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