On a cloudy, but quite usable September Sunday, I was en route to Hollywood, entertainment capital of the world, Bob Barker hickeydom (alleged), and home of the embittered, cadaverish, forgotten '50s movie queen whose name, face, and career escape me.

(Publisher's note: At this performance of this anecdote, the role of the embittered, cadaverish, forgotten '50s movie queen will be played by Little Lulu.)

I arrived unfashionably, although patriotically, early at the Amtrak station. I had anticipated railroad security measures to rival the current hysteria at airports with their rigorous inspection levels made necessary due to diabolical terrorism and the cancellation of "Family Guy."

Instead, I was greeted by what I assessed to be indifference on the part of the staffers, even as a few fellow passengers, resplendent in their giant ill-fitting garb and donut crumbs, nodded "How do" our way and spun the cylinders on their snub-nosed .38s, commencing another time-killing round of Railway Lobby Russian Roulette.

Meanwhile, near the loading dock, a disheveled taxicab, which couldn't make up its mind whether it wanted to be yellow, white, or ringworm, screeched to zero, chafing the curb. A non-descript cardboard box swaddled in duct tape and twine was tossed from inside one of the murky, backseat windows, clunking hard onto the pavement. Then, the car shrieked away, wheelie upon wheelie, accelerating into the morning sun.

I scanned the immediate vicinity, danger sensed, hoping against the odds for a glimpse of Morley Safer or Mike Wallace, as the discarded package ticked louder than a "60 Minutes" title sequence or the mighty Big Ben.

"It could be a bomb," I gasped. "Or, worse yet, Karaoke rhythm tracks."

Still, no one on duty exhibited much in the way of comforting concern. I needed to know exactly who was lurking in the neighborhood of the train depot or amidst this gathering of strange people checking their baggage into the underbelly of the Southern Crescent, soon to depart on Track #1. Who among us could say we were at peace without the measured scrutiny of thorough Security searches? Certainly, not I. Nor the granny over there, distributing gingerbread men with raisin eyes and nitroglycerin drool.

As far as the authorities knew, the waiting room was teeming with potential cutthroats, including myself. Anyone might be a demolition scalawag, suicidal nuclear piñata, or a chronic head cold sufferer with one of them annoying nose whistles.

I brainstormed. I figured if I could get searched, the others would get the once-over, too, what with me insisting on equal treatment and, if necessary, yelling "Teacher's pet! Teacher's pet!" for the next 2,000 miles. I went to work.

I was traveling with several sinister items of luggage, including my About.com laptop computer satchel. No railroad personnel displayed an iota of alarm over my presence and possessions, not even after I aimed my most threatening Elvis "Stay Away Joe" sneer and lip pout right at them.

I considered more collagen.

I narrowed my next round of combative inflictions to purest Presley before abandoning the idea. Either I'd start a rousing fistfight or I'd warble that cute little number Miss Donna Butterworth sings with The King in "Paradise Hawaiian Style;" however, I was here to go to Hollywood, not to be detained by the Feds, whom I find to be tireless and dedicated, yet ignorant of our rich film heritage.

Security was at a standstill.

-- Or maybe they were at the snack machine. I dunno. I really couldn't see. When I return home, I'm going in for new glasses.

"Do these people expect me to forage through my own underpants and toothpaste?" I fumed. "I'm paying good money. I want someone else to unmatch my socks and interrogate the Smoothing Gel. Make us safe, dammit!"

I knocked on the ticket counter. "Excuse me, Sheriff Lobo," I said to the station manager. "I couldn't help but notice my cargo pants' pockets are mysteriously extra-bulgy today."

"All aboard!" he hollered.

"I love my cargo pants," I explained. "If I do say so myself, being an anonymous stranger who has often fancied himself in an assortment of handsome turbans and uncharted caves, these pockets are a stroke of genius for train travel because they can secret away many tiny, highly technical devices which can wreak havoc on the innocent." I was describing my cell phone which I use to play pranks on random callers, but he didn't know that. I was going all out in my efforts to be searched and keep America safe.

"All aboard! Birmingham ... New Orleans ... Anaheim ... Azusa ... and Cucamonga!" He was quite good with the announcing. I thought I was in A Quinn Martin Production.

"So, Cap'n Crunch," I asked, "you're not going to rummage helter-skelter through my bags or make me empty my deep slacks pockets are you?"

"I see no cause for alarm," he said.

I slipped the zipped rifle case onto my shoulder. (While in southern California, I never tour without a polo mallet.)

"Well, shazam, Sgt. Carter, my dear self-starting safety czar, do you mean to tell me you aren't going to inspect my suitcase and carry-ons before loading them into the train? You folks don't know me. And I have my Web site stats to prove it."

The manager rotated his scowl 180 degrees to an air space maybe 12 inches above my forehead. Tall for a train gent. He looked stern, down into my widening eyes. His right forefinger pointed to something on my shirt, hard, making an half-inch indentation into my chest.

"I plan to adopt, providing a good home to this, my first foster dimple," I said.

"The more the merrier. Besides, it has my crater," I said.

"I figure a guy can't have too much depression," I said.

"Truth be told, it's more like a navel. I've always wanted an innie," I said.

"Pick one," I said.

He lowered his voice to speak. I cleared my schedule a moment to listen.

"I know your type," he seethed. "You're one of those wise guys who come in here angling for a complimentary frisk, aren't you?" 

"Uh. Maybe."

"The train is safe. Get on it."

Which I did, speedily, succinctly, and quietly, showering oodles of gratuity tens and twenties keepsakes to everyone in my path, including my seatmate, the one wearing the attractive sport blazer fashioned from TNT sticks and crocheted fuses.

The train, pointed southwestward, rolled into gear. We were off. I looked outside to see the familiar sights of my world slowly pass by. There was the modern metropolitan skyline, the busy intown freeway, my running wife waving feverishly alongside the window, a Zoo Atlanta billboard, the capitol building--

"Huh?"

Distracted by the hubbub at the terminal counter, I had forgotten my wife was circling for a space in the small parking lot. We hadn't said our good-byes. She was rushing to fetch me. I raced through the aisle to the rear of the Coach car, shouting her name and proclamations of love and the necessity to leave my Snickers alone in the freezer.

Dangling from the moving train's half-opened boarding door, I stretched every inch and corpuscle of my body to reach out, to touch Donna's extended fingers one final time, as she jogged up the nice side of the tracks on gallant, winged feet.

"Come back to me!" I screamed, haunting, lyrical, bittersweet.

I heard her faint, so faint, melodious reply cut through the swirling breeze and din to reach my ears: "You're .. the one ... going away."

"Oh."

To Be Continued...