Valley of Gold

by Phil Temples

I am not a superstitious person by nature. Nor am I religious. But I do believe that in our everyday lives, occasional, mundane events occur that can leave a profound impact on us. Indeed, ones that call into question the very meaning of our existence. Today’s ride on the RedLine must surely fall into this category.

I’m standing on a crowded Red Line car after boarding at the Park Street Station. Like my fellow riders, I’m feeling various emotions: boredom, fatigue, and numbness. I’ve never enjoyed public transportation. Many of my friends swear by it. I tend to swear at it. My friends feel a sense of pride that they are helping to save the environment. They wear their mode of transportation like a banner that proclaims, “I love the environment.” Don’t get me wrong — I love the environment, too. But I have a perfectly good car that gets me from Point A to Point B. Occasionally however, I must surrender to the darkness and grope my way through subterranean holes that pass for the subways in Boston.

I hear him. More accurately, I smell him. The man is in front of me, hanging on like I am to the handle-holds that traverse the car. He is shabbily dressed, probably a homeless man. He has his back to me. He’s mumbling something, but the constant squealing of the wheels against the tracks is drowning out his voice. The woman closest to him appears to be an unwilling listener. Perhaps he’s asking her for money. Money to buy booze. I’m watching her expression. She glances at him occasionally but mostly she keeps her head tucked down, staring at the floor. I feel a bit sorry for her.

The Charles/MGH stop appears. It’s quieter now. We’re above ground, and for a brief moment or two I feel my spirits lift as we ascend to the elevated T-stop platform. The view of the Charles River and the surrounding skyline would be quite spectacular right now if we weren’t all packed in like sardines in a sardine can. Our bodies have shifted to make room for more passengers. I am located two bodies away. I can hear him now.

“Gold. Lots of it. More’n a body can imagine. Many seek it.”

He continues this spiel to no one in particular. Those who are closest to him continue to stare ahead, away, or down, maintaining blank expressions on their faces.

“… I know! I’ve been there. It’s a valley of gold. Lots of it. Treasures beyond belief. Many seek it.”

I think of my wallet, and what’s inside. I’m wondering how much money it would take to shut him up. It’s one thing to be accosted by someone as you’re walking through Harvard Square. You just keep walking. God knows I’ve done the drill often enough. But here, we’re trapped.

“… You can seek it, too. It’s not far. I know. I’ve been there.”

Just then, the train and all of us sardines descend into the gaping hole in the ground on the Cambridge side of the river. Kendall Square is next. Perhaps he’ll exit there to go looking for a free handout at Au Bon Pan.

I look at a few of my fellow passengers. We’re still here with the homeless man, bound for Central Square. I’m closer still. The smell is worse. He looks around at us. He’s more focused. He’s more intent on conveying his message.

“… Gold, I tell you. LOTS OF IT.”

We’re all thinking the same thing, no doubt. Is this guy a psycho? Or, perhaps a schizo. I realize that I actually don’t know the difference between a psychotic and a schizophrenic. Maybe I should find out.

The time between Kendall and Central Squares seems interminable. I’m wondering what the driver of this train is doing. After all, he doesn’t have to steer the thing. The driver just has to watch the signal lights, go when the signal is green, slow down when it’s yellow, and stop when it’s red. I bet he’s bored. Let him come back here and join the multitude of sardines, dreaming of gold.

“… A whole lot of people. Yess’r. I seen em with my own eyes. Dressed in the finest clothes. Carryin’ more gold’n you can imagine. Carryin’ it up from the valley.”

He grows quiet for a few minutes, and then sighs. No one is buying his story, and he knows it. Or, he’s winding down from his delusion. The pink elephants have started to walk away, and his thoughts are more grounded in the reality that the rest of us share.

I stare down at my free hand, catching the time. When I look up, he’s right there in my face, grinning at me. For the first time I observe his features. His worn, craggy face is not completely threatening although one eye is not tracking very well. And I’ve almost gotten used to the smell after fifteen minutes.

“How about you, Mister?” he asks. “You wanna see it? More gold’n you can imagine. Buckets of it. The whole valley’s covered in it.”

He’s directing the question at me. Shields up. Ignore Mode is now engaged at maximum.

“… I know what you’re thinkin’, Mister. But it’s true. I wouldn’t be tellin’ you if it ain’t. Won’t you believe me? I seen it myself. So can you!”

I’m not sure what possessed me to look at him. I mean — really look at him! Look directly into his eyes, in a way that I never do with strangers. For a brief instant I look into that bad eye. And the most amazing thing happens. I am no longer a sardine on a Red Line car in Cambridge. I am in the Valley. And there is gold — a hell of a lot of gold, in fact.

Originally published in Separate Worlds, December 2012 issue.