During my time in university I spent my summers working in the south side of the Los Angeles County, where a close family friend had found space for me in his research laboratory. We were investigating the effects of nicotine from electronic cigarettes on lab mice, for it is common knowledge that mice are notorious chain-smokers, especially those in the service of cigarette researchers. Notably, we have found that smoking electronic cigarettes is exceedingly harmful for mice, and before I begin this story I must in good conscience urge any readers with pet mice to please keep them away from any smoking devices, electronic or otherwise. It is my opinion that just as chocolate is a pleasant treat for us, but a deadly toxin to dogs, tobacco might also have vastly different effects in humans and in mice. 

Every morning I would take the A-train from the bustling Los Angeles downtown to the primary station in Willowbrook, which doubly served as a bus depot, spending around an hour and a half in transit to and from the lab daily. The exact amount of time was never certain, for the trains were always either a few minutes early or a few minutes late – and far more often the latter, at that. There was one occasion in recent memory when the A-train was perfectly on-time arriving at the station, but had delayed leaving the station to accommodate the entering and exiting passengers, who were immobilized by disbelief.

One afternoon, as the sun was going down and it was approaching dinner-time, we agreed to call it a day and continue the mice’s maltreatment tomorrow. I was especially tired, for we had conducted a series of important and eye-opening experiments wherein we discovered smothering laboratory mice with copious amounts of tobacco smoke makes them feel unwell, which we were pleased to find agreed with previous literature on the subject. Waving good-bye to the other researchers, I collected my belongings and began to make for the train station. 

On the way to the station stood Jim Smiley, who I named so because he never failed to greet me with a great big toothy (not teethy, for he had only one) smile. Mr. Smiley was a sign-spinner, and stood outside all day showing off a big cardboard arrow – WE BUY GOLD – it said. The gold shop stood beside him, a small building in the Food4Less parking lot. The business always seemed to be doing well – it had been open for many years, and looked like it would stay open for many more, yet the only gold Old Jim ever saw was printed on the sign he held. From Mr. Smiley I received a fist bump and a grin. 

The train station was a filthy place, and smelled of urine or feces, or both. I passed through the gate without paying the train fare; the gate was broken most of the time, and everybody in the station had gotten in free of charge. Only once have I seen someone pay the train fare. She was an old lady of about seventy, and apparently exceedingly well-meaning and honest. When she paid, the broken gate closed even more tightly and locked her out. The station was a two-story tall structure held up by large cement pillars, the base of which sat teen-agers and idling adults, who carried stereo speakers playing something or other which I do not recall. Over the sound of music were the voices of peddlers pacing up and down the station, selling cheap earphones or phone chargers, or stun-guns.

While I was waiting for my A-train I saw a short, almost frail woman going from passenger to passenger, though she was too far away for me to hear what exactly she wanted. But finally she reached me, and I could see she was tan, with a sunken face and curly brown hair. She put her face close to mine and spoke quickly and brashly in a hoarse voice:

“Hey, can I use your phone for a sec? I need to call someone – quick, just for a second.” She held out her hand, as if expecting me to agree after facing cold rejection from the last eleven or so passengers. However, I was not so readily inclined to trust someone with my phone, especially not to someone who asks for things even before introducing themselves. I decided she could use my phone, but only if she told me what number she wanted me to dial, and I kept ahold of my phone during the call. 

I omit the number she decided to call from this story for the sake of her privacy, but it is notable that for a what felt like ages I stood under the sun, cellphone in hand, as she uhmmed and uhhed, tapping her head and scratching her neck, before she was certain she had remembered the number correctly. I dialed the number she gave and turned on speaker phone, and the following conversation is recorded below, verbatim:

“Hey, is this Aunt Samantha?”

“Who?”

“Samantha Edwards, is she there?”

“I don’t know nobody named Samantha Edwards.” *click. 

“Shit, wrong number. Hey, can you dial the other number? The one I said was wrong, but it’s right so dial it. (This was directed at me.) … Hey, Aunt Samantha?”

“Yeah, who’s calling?”

“It’s Martha. I just got out of prison today, and I need a ride home. Can you pick me up?”

“Martha? Weren’t you locked up somewhere?”

(Louder.) “It’s me, Martha. I got out today. I need a ride home. Can you come and pick me up?”

“Hey, whose number are you calling from? Why aren’t you registered on my phone?”

“I got a guy at the train station to let me borrow his phone. I got – What’s your name? – Justin’s phone with me right now. I don’t got my phone on me.”

“Well, where are you?”

“Oh, I’m, uh – Hey, where are we? – He says we’re at the Hillowbrook and Rosa Parks station –”

“You mean Willowbrook?”

“Now you listen here; I mean what I say, and just now I said Hillowbrook, so don’t you go correcting – (here I politely interrupted her) – Oh, I misheard you? My bad, my bad. We’re at Willowbrook and Rosa Parks, now don’t you forget it.”

“Oh – hmm? It’s Martha, she just got out! (There followed a short pause as Aunt Samantha continued to holler at someone else on her side of the line.) She needs someone to go pick her up! (Another pause.) Well, it ain’t gonna be me – my car’s in the shop! (Incoherent grumbling.) Oh, you’re busy? Now you’re busy? Man, get your ass in the car and drive! Sorry, I don’t got my car right now, so your brother’s coming to get you.”

“Well, alright. Does he know where he’s going?”

“I told him earlier – Oh! Sergio, it’s Aunt Martha. Do you want to talk to her? Here, take the phone.”

“Oh, Sergio, my sweet baby! How are you? Are you being good for your Papa and Mama?”

“Aunt Martha, are you finally coming home?”

“Just wait at home, okay? Daddy is coming to pick me up from the train station. I’ll be home soon.” 

(There was audible whoopee-ing and cheering from the other side, not only from Sergio’s voice but the voices of other children in the background, followed by a loud thud.) 

“...Damn kids dropped the phone. They’re all running to the car to pick you up. I don’t even think they left enough space for you in there.”

“We’ll see when they get here. I’ll see you soon, Aunt Samantha.”

“Buh-bye.”

I hung up. 

Before Martha – whose name I recently learned – asked anything more of me, I tried excusing myself from the conversation, for my train had arrived. I had already missed it once when it arrived during Martha’s conversation, which I was too polite or meek to cut short, and was determined not to miss it again. But before I could leave, she grabbed ahold of my hand and thanked me profusely, making sure I understood in great detail how glad she was to go home, and how much she was looking forward to seeing her nieces and nephews again. By the time I pulled myself away, my train had left.