He entered the car at Stadium, one of a party of three: two black men and a white woman. The other guy was short and slim, with a large dog on a leash. He was tall, heavy, with a head of dreadlocks. His dog was small. The small guy sat to my left; he sat on a seat opposite mine. The woman stood with her back to the train wall, opposite the small guy. She kept her eyes on the large dog and issued orders for it to stay in its seat. He fixed his gaze on the floor. His motions were noticeably slow. He drank a bottle of water. At Mount Baker, the other guy with his dog and the woman quickly left the train. He rose slowly, taking his dog and the bottle of water. He was on his way to the door of the train when he turned back quickly to pick up one of a number of noodles that a previous passenger had left on the floor. He spent a few seconds trying to gain a purchase on it. The train doors slid shut audibly. He stood erect and walked quickly to them. He pushed the red button on the left door in the hope that the car would open for him. From the platform side, the white woman banged against the right door. The doors did not open. The train resumed its southerly journey to the airport. He stood by the doors, his head down, his dog by his side. I wondered if I should have said, "Sir, the door is about to close. Don't worry about the noodle." I don't even think he managed to pick it up.
At Columbia City, the doors opened. He hesitated to leave. He seemed to be considering something. I wondered if he would successfully make his way through the opening or find himself riding one more stop to Othello. He and the small dog managed to step forward in time. Did he have money to get back to Mount Baker? Would his friends still be there when he arrived?
I turned to a woman sitting to my right with her legs on her carry-on. "This isn't the first time. This kind of thing happens to him a lot." She said, "He was really stressing me out." The train had forgotten him, as it would forget us. Only the noodles would remain.