Chapter 1: The Memorial Day Departure

The station smelled like burnt coffee, floor polish, and the tang of hot dogs from a cart by the entrance. The crowd buzzed with Memorial Day energy—kids in Cubs jerseys darting between luggage, someone blasting country music from a Bluetooth speaker. I found my seat by the window, halfway through car five. It was the kind of spot where you could stare out at the endless sweep of Midwestern fields, half-lulled by the train’s gentle rocking. The Amtrak hum was almost comforting—people dragging their luggage, the muffled PA crackling about delays to St. Louis, a toddler wailing over a dropped juice box, and someone unwrapping a tuna sandwich, the smell drifting through the car.

Since it was a long ride, I went ahead and reclined my seat, hoping for a little nap.

It felt good at first—my back melted into the cushion, the gentle rumble beneath my feet. With sunlight peeking through the grime-streaked window, I thought, maybe this time, I’d actually get some sleep. Long-haul trains are made for this, right? People napping with neck pillows, earbuds in, hoodies pulled low.

But as soon as I settled in, someone behind me shoved my seat, hard.

The jolt shot a sharp pain up my spine and nearly sent my phone tumbling. I twisted around, expecting at least a polite word or an apologetic look.

Instead, I locked eyes with a man sitting there, glaring at me with a cold, hard stare.

He looked late thirties, maybe early forties—a big guy in a Chicago Bears cap and a faded Metallica t-shirt. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed in a way that said he wasn’t here to make friends. His fingers drummed impatiently on his tray table, knuckles pale.

He barked, "Hey, what makes you think you can just slam your seat back? Ever heard of common courtesy?"

The words landed like a slap, loud enough that a woman in a sunhat a couple rows up looked over, brows pinched with concern. For a second, it felt like every eye in our row was glued to us, waiting to see what I’d do next.

My jaw clenched. I could feel every stare, every unspoken judgment, like I’d broken some sacred code. My hands went clammy, and I had to fight the urge to shrink into the seat. I just blinked, lost for a second in that uniquely American discomfort—caught between standing my ground and not wanting to make a scene. I swallowed, searching for the right words, but my brain stalled out—like when a GPS can’t find a signal.

I remembered my dad, rolling his eyes at airplane seat arguments on the news—“People just want to be comfortable, son. It’s not that deep.” But here, it sure felt deep.

Isn’t that what the seat’s for? I thought. It’s not like I’d put my feet up or started a karaoke session. For a second, I wondered if I’d somehow missed a memo on Amtrak etiquette, like maybe there was a new rule posted in the bathroom next to the faded WiFi tips.

I tried to explain, "I just want to lean back and get some sleep."

I kept my voice even, polite—maybe if I sounded reasonable, he’d back off. In my head, I pictured myself as the chill guy from a State Farm commercial, not the exasperated commuter I was quickly becoming.

He cut me off, impatient: "I’m not letting you recline, got it?"

His voice rose just a notch, the kind of tone that says he’s used to getting his way. He didn’t just want comfort—he wanted control. He glared at me like I was supposed to apologize for existing.

My pulse quickened. Conflict in a tight space is weirdly intimate, every word echoing off the plastic and metal. Part of me wanted to let it go, but my back ached with a stubborn, insistent throb.

Logically, if the Amtrak seats recline, passengers should be allowed to use them.

I glanced at the little diagram on the armrest, the faded sticker practically inviting you to lean back. That’s what these trains are built for—hundreds of people crammed together for hours, each just trying to carve out a sliver of comfort in a moving steel tube.

Because of work, my lower back is always in pain. If I have to sit upright for six hours, how am I supposed to handle it?

I remembered all those late nights hunched over a desk, my body stiff from years in the Army and then more years behind a computer. Six hours upright on a holiday weekend felt less like travel and more like punishment.

Then I noticed the man’s own seat was reclined.

He’d pushed his seat all the way back, his head barely a foot from the knees of the old woman behind him. She didn’t seem to mind, busily knitting something bright purple, earbuds in.

He reclined his seat, but wouldn’t let me recline mine.

The double standard crawled under my skin. I tried to keep my temper in check, but it was impossible not to point out the obvious.

I said, "Didn’t you recline your seat too?"

My voice was calm but clipped, the words pressed out through gritted teeth. I wondered if anyone else noticed the hypocrisy—maybe the conductor, maybe the college kids across the aisle, half-awake behind their laptops.

He shot back, "Do you see anyone behind me?"

His tone was smug, almost triumphant, like he’d caught me in some kind of trap. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, showing he was in the last row—the only seat in the car with no one behind him.

Only then did I realize he was in the last row—no one behind him, just the bulkhead.

The logic stung. Sure, his seat didn’t inconvenience anyone, but what about the rest of us? I wondered if he’d picked that spot on purpose, just to avoid the fate he was now imposing on me.

I tried again: "But you’ve already reclined. Your space is bigger now."

It was a weak protest, but the principle mattered. Fair’s fair—wasn’t that what we’re taught growing up? Share the swings. Take turns. Don’t be a jerk.

He sneered, "Mind your own business. Anyway, I’m not letting you recline. Shut up and stop bothering me while I’m watching my movie."

He jabbed a finger at the iPad propped on his tray, the glow of some Michael Bay flick flickering across his face. He didn’t even pause—just wanted me out of his world.

I was getting angry too. "Then why don’t you switch seats with me? Why can you lie down, but I can’t?"

My words came out sharper than I meant. Maybe it was the way he dismissed me, or maybe just the weariness of the journey settling in. The idea seemed simple—if he valued comfort so much, let him try my spot for a while.

He just looked annoyed, ignored me, and shoved my seat again, forcing it upright. Then he propped up his iPad and restarted his movie.

The impact rattled my teeth, my coffee nearly sloshed over. I watched, incredulous, as he jammed his earbuds back in and cranked up the volume loud enough I could hear the tinny soundtrack bleeding out. He didn’t even glance my way again.

It was suffocating.

There’s nothing like that trapped feeling on a train—nowhere to go, nowhere to escape the tension. I looked out the window, hoping the flat sweep of cornfields would calm me down, but my back pulsed in protest every time I shifted.

My back really hurt. I just wanted to lean back and rest.

I pressed my palm to the small of my back, trying to massage away the ache. It didn’t help. Even the soft thunk of the tracks felt like a mockery, reminding me that comfort was just out of reach.