Lanterns on Lake Pontchartrain
An Acadiana Transgender Story

-7-
The Road to Baton Rouge

I took a deep breath as I stepped onto the concrete platform of the train station. It was a little past seven o' clock in the morning. But the temperature that morning had already reached one hundred four degrees, with a heat index of one hundred and fifteen. The weatherman on News Channel 13 had even hinted at a possible high of one hundred twenty for the midday and that was to hover till the sun set around eight fifteen this evening. The air was hot and muggy and tainted with the smell of spoiling, greasy fried chicken and a backed up sewer line somewhere. Taking a deep breath I looked around me and noticed the station's platform was damn near deserted save for one long railroad clerk who was pushing an old wooden brush broom up and down the gray concrete platform. Said platform was stained with spit, chewed up wads of gum, pee, and poop.

The broom had collected around fifteen different shades of broken glass. Some of the shards were dark brown, some were light green, other pieces reminded me of fragmented pieces of jade, and yet others reminded me of broken pieces of sapphire. I tried not to look directly into the guys eyes. He was a old man, who had a hunched over back and a unshaven face, his hair was cropped as close as possible to his scalp and his eyes seemed glazed over and he was clothed in a dirty, gray, boilersuit that was stained with look like fifteen or twenty different meals and he reeked of pissed.

I forced myself to release my breath, forcing the foul air into my mouth. I decided now would be a good time to check the time on my phone. Trains in this part of Louisiana that to say Southern Louisiana were not known to run on time. Delays were common and were almost to be expected. The distance from Blue Bayou to Baton Rouge was roughly a hundred twenty five miles by rail, it was seventy five by car. But the railroad was cheaper than gas, the only drawback was the railroad looped around and round several other smaller settlements. Total travel time, around two and a half hours if all went according to plan. Shaking a little, I pressed a button on my phone and the time appeared.

The time was seven thirty five, the train was already  fifteen minutes late. That meant I'd spent fifteen more minutes than I should have standing on this God forsaken platform in the middle of the worst part of town, wearing nothing more but a light floral sundress, and black flats. Both I'd brought this morning from Walmart this morning in a fight of madness brought on by panic.

“Bloody Hell.” I said, taking a deep breath as I peered down at the iron railroad tracks. This was my first time going out and presenting myself as female. Now, I'd not as my lovely cousin Jasmine had suggested gone and gotten my full body waxed. Instead I'd decided to go Walmart and buy three full cans of shaving foam and a packet of pink razor blades and had spent three hours chopping through the dense jungle of body hair that had covered me, I'd somehow managed to chop through the hair under my arms first, then I mowed under the hair under my right leg, wrestled into submission the hair on right leg and finally trimmed to smooth perfection the hair around my nether region. I'd then spent four hours watching fifteen different videos on YouTube about how to tuck in your junk and how to tape them up to tape them up and make them seem smaller and give a nice, flushed, flat appearance down there.

The prize of beauty was not cheap and a large chunk of my sanity had been flushed down the toilet. As the seconds slowly turned into minutes I felt myself starting to doubt myself. My courage started to slip through my fingertips. While some parts of the great state of Louisiana were open and accepting of people like me and others who fell under the LGBTQ+ umbrella. For example the greater New Orleans Metro and the greater Baton Rouge Metro and even the areas around Lafayette those were if I'm honest with you nothing more but small islands of hope and acceptance in a massive storm tossed sea of good, old fashion republican conservatism.

What did I mean by that? Well allow me to enlighten you for just a moment. While the more enlightened, Democrat Party controlled the massive urban centers of Louisiana the more conservative Republican party held a firm controlling grip on the more rustic, rural townships. North Louisiana, Southern Baptist and populated by sharecroppers and hill farmers was their stronghold.

That was the hill country to the far north of us, but they also had strong roots in the rural hamlets and settlements that lay south of New Orleans and even here in Blue Bayou a town that had grown up in shadow of of New Orleans, a town that many considered just a bedroom community of New Orleans there were still burning embers of the radical elements of the Republican Party. Those MAGA ( Make America Great Again) followers of  former commander and chief Donald Trump. They believed without a doubt the 2020 Election had been stolen from Mr. Trump, and they also believed in 2024 he would return to the White House to finish 'Draining The Swamp'.  Those kind of people would want people like me to be lynched from the sour apple tree. Hell they might go as far as to chop me up and use me as gator bait once they are done.

“Where's that damn train.” I said pressing down upon another button of my phone. Another long fifteen minutes had passed and there was still neither hide nor hair of the train not even a whistle. I closed my eyes and tried to get some measured control over my breathing, I was going to give myself a bloody, fucking asthma attack if I kept freaking myself out.

Then I heard it, a long drawn out echo of a steam whistle filled the hot, muggy hair and from around the curve in the track I could see a huge cloud of smoke starting to rise into the air. I  blinked, of course it was too much hope that my cousin had booked me a ticket on the newer, faster 'New Orleans and Baton Rouge Express' but instead she had to book my ticket on the slower, outdated 'New Orleans and Baton Rouge Limited Railroad' a fossil from the age of steam.

I took a deep breath as I took a few steps back, the sound of the brass whistle filled the air and before long a massive, black, steamed powered locomotive was pulling up to the platform. Clouds of white steam escaped from under it as it rolled to a gentle stop. The old coal powered locomotive was pulling three railroad carriage cars that looked shaggy. And I bet they reeked of coal dust, and were infested with mold and covered with mildew.

“Bloody Hell.” I said, taking a deep breath as I stepped aboard the first railroad carriage. I was greeted with a sight that made me question everything and well I almost turned around and got off the train. Just a stone's throw from the doorway, sitting on a wooden three legged stool inside the first door was an old man with the face of a hound dog, that to say a drooping face and a few remaining strains of cotton white hair. His dark, blue eyes were glazed over and almost void of life and his round oval face was covered with small, pointed white hairs and the sour smell of Gentleman Southern hung around him like a blinding fog. His uniform was a pair of blue dress pants that were covered in dust, and a blue button up jacket that looked like it had seen better days, it was covered in spit, coffee stains and reeked of piss and shit.
All in all he looked rough and the blue broad bill hat on his head just completed the image.

“Ticket please.” He commanded. His voice had a thick New Orleans accent. And as soon as opened his mouth I noticed that he was missing several teeth and what little remained had been stained beyond repair in either a dark shade of yellow from nicotine or dark, chocolate brown from coffee. His breath also smelled to high heavens of cigarette smoke and corn whiskey.

I handed him my ticket.

“You are sitting in section A, which is on the left hand side of the car. Please Keep seated when the train is in motion. If you gotta take a piss or shit there is a bucket under the seat. If you use it, be sure to empty it or toss it out the window. If we leave the rails, we're all dead. This is a box of matches on iron wheels. So if you're the type that prays a lot, start praying now. I myself will be in this corner here, nursing my bottom. Don't ask me any questions, just sit back and enjoy the ride.” He muttered as he stood up, he then leaned over the iron railing of the car and in a very rough tone of voice he shouted out.

“Okay Mr. Jim Danny! We're clear. Let this this bitch a rolling!” He hollered out as he wrapped his old, bony fingers around the iron railing. “NEXT STOP, NINTH SOUTH STREET STATION, NEW ORLEANS. Followed by FISHERMAN'S HAVEN, then onto FISHERMAN'S LANDING, and then for the mercy of God almighty, Blessed Ever Virgin Mary! And Jesus Christ we are going to steam through PORT SPANISH and then we're going to drink a toast to the whores of OLD FRENCH SETTLEMENT! And then onto the bastard town of BATON ROUGE. ALRIGHT MR. JIM DANNY, LET GET THIS SON OF A BITCH MOVING RIGHT ON DOWN THE RAILS BEFORE THOSE BASTARDS ON THE SOUTHERN EXPRESS CULL US OFF THE GODDAMN RAILS.”

I did the only thing I could think of. I made the sign of the cross over myself and whispered under my breath. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” I muttered.  A few seconds later the old railroad car lurched into motion and soon we were flying down the tracks. I clung to my suitcase and my clutch like my very life depended on it.

“This here is one of the last remaining steam trains still making the grounds.” The Conductor said. “I used to work on the Yazoo-Delta Railroad. That one runs between Yazoo City and Jackson. Makes stops in Benton and Goodman. And from Yazoo City, it goes all into the Yazoo Delta.  She passes through and stops at places that are pleasant to remember. Places with such names as Rolling Fork, Vicksburg, Delta City, Cotton Point Landing, Midnight, Silver City,  Holy,  Deer Creek Landing, Greenville, and Sharbrough's Landing. Ever been to Sharbrough's landing?” The conductor said as he peered toward me.

“No!” I said as I felt the car jolt around. One side seemed to lean far to the left and for a few seconds it seemed to lean a little far to the right. “Is this thing safe?” I asked as I peered toward the old man, who at this very moment was putting the lip of a brown bottle to his lips. He took a nice long swallow before he dropped the bottle and leered at me with hollowed eyes that seemed glazed over.

“No no, but hell no.” He said, smirking a little. “If you wanted to ride on something safe you should have booked your bloody ticket on the 'Express' train. Would have cost a bit more.” He said lifting the bottle once more to his lips. “But at least it would have been safe. We run a private railroad! Some rich boy from down New Orleans started this railroad about fifteen years ago.  Because he got tired of playing with his toy train sets and wanted something a whole lot bigger!”

I nodded my head.

“So  he got his Daddy, who is some big business man, to buy him his own  railroad, complete with a real working steam powered locomotive and coach cars. And then got the gamblers, pimps, drunks, crooks, and boozers of New Orleans to staff it! Hell, when the unemployment office set me up with this job I thought I was finally doing something right with life! For a minute I thought a blessing had  fallen out of the pocket of Jesus! Turns out I'm just riding shotgun with the Devil five days a week. Fifty hours a week, straight pay, no fucking over time, five one hundred dollar bills, cold hard cash.” He said smirking as he once more lifted the lip of the bottle to his whisker cheeks.

I noticed that the liquid in the bottle was an amber color. Kind of a light brownish color. The color reminded me of Pine-Sol. But it did not smell like Pine-Sol. It smelled like sour corn whiskey, and after a few seconds he had drained the bottle and once it was empty he just casually tossed the bottle over his shoulder and out the window and smiled as he reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out one another.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Irish Cough Syrup! The best damn cough syrup known to fucking,” He said smiling sweetly.

“Are you allowed to drink 'Irish Cough Syrup' to drink on the job?” I asked as I leered toward him.

“No no, but hell no, OSHA will raise seven billion dollars worth of hell.” He said, smirking. “But when you ride this route, each and every time might be  your last. We are going to be passing through some rough, thick swamps here in a few minutes. I suggest praying the Rosary. Cause if the summer floods have washed out the old wooden trestle ahead. We'll be going for a swim. And if the wreck doesn't kill you the gators will eat ya.” He shouted with a bark like laugh as he took another long sip.

“Say pretty woman. What your name” The  Conductor asked as he took another long swig from his bottle. 

“Isabella!” I said, taking a deep breath.

“Well Isabella, if you don't mind me saying this, you look mighty pretty! If something does happen to you. I'm sure the old mortician down at St. Andrew's Funeral Home will have a blast with you! I personally know the fellow. We drink and play cards together. He likes to give all the pretty girls that fall under his car one last dance and one last blast thump before sealing them into the cold casket!” He said falling into a fit of insane laughter, the laughter reminded of the comic book character 'The Joker' or the Steven King character 'Pennywise the Dancing Clown'. His laughter lasted for several minutes before he started to cough and choke.

“...” I shuttered and tried my best to put that mental image out of my head. We'd been on the rails for a good forty five minutes at this point and right now I could see the station sigh for Fisherman's Landing, a small hamlet of about one hundred or so families ahead. Like Blue Bayou, the railroad was often only the link to the outside roads for such small settlements. The platform seemed empty though. The sick, old man hung his out the window and then hollered at the top of his lungs.

“KEEP ON ROLLING JIM DANNY! NOBODY THERE, AND TELL LITTLE GATOR TO SHOVEL ON SOME MORE COAL. WE CAN BLAST RIGHT THROUGH THAT SHITTY LITTLE STATION, LAW HARD ON THE WHISTLE AND LET THEM CAJUN AND CREOLE SONS OF BITCHES THAT THE 'NEW ORLEANS AND BATON ROUGE' IS BLASTING THROUGH THAT SHITTY LITTLE HAMLET.” His voice was drowned out by the wind.

A few seconds my eyes went as wide as saucer plates as an ear piercing whistling sound filled the air. I then bellowed in pain and confusion as the train seemed to pick up speed. The conductor just smiled and laughed as the train started to rocket down the tracks. The screeching sound of its steam whistle howling at the top of its iron lung into the late morning air and the loud cracking of the tracks filled me with a pending sense of dread.

And that is where I must end this episode.