Chapter 1: Broadway Limited

March 14th 1995, 10:00 AM; Plaza Hotel; New York City, NY

Jillian McGee was scared. Very scared. She had spent the past two years with her aunt and uncle, Krista and Justin. They were ... not the most pleasant of people. Krista was seflish, and Justin was practically her toadie. They dressed her in goodwill clothing while dressing themselves out of Barney’s, Bonwit-Teller, or Bergdorf Goodman’s. She knew they did this with the vast fortune her parents had left- supposedly in trust for her.

But that she could tolerate. It was just money; she wasn’t the most materialistic of people. They were outright nasty to her, but she could solve that fairly easily, too. She simply avoided them, as much as possible. She ate, generally, enough food to get by. That was unpleasant, too, considering they ate five-star the whole way. But she could live with that, too. The world sucked; she was used to that.

But now it was time for her other relative, Uncle Lance, to take custody of her, once again. He wasn’t just selfish and mean. He was selfish and mean, true, but that wasn’t just it. He was outright abusive, sexually so. She had been just 10 when she stayed with him last, and he had abused the hell out of her until age 12, when Krista insisted that she move in with them.

It was not a selfless act; she got custodial money from the estate for taking care of her. Krista wanted all of that lucre pouring into her bank account. Now it was time for them to trade back; and Lance wanted to have his “Jilly baby” back so he could go back to having her to himself.

Jill had tried to tell Krista and Justin about it, but they really didn’t listen, or believe her. She couldn’t take another day of it; she had thought about stepping in front of a cab and ending it all. Still ... there was the dream. She was cynical about it; she had a hard time believing it. But she clung to it.

Justin and Krista herded her out the door of their residential suite. They went down to the lobby. It was but a few minute ride to Penn Station by taxi, easily accessed by the subway, and it was possible to walk. But Justin and Krista? They needed to take a Black Car. And so it was, they made their way to Penn Station in this relatively high level of luxury.

For reason’s not entirely clear to her, Justin and Krista had decided to take the train in Coach. She didn’t care, but it wasn’t like them to economize much.

March 14th 1995, 11:35 AM; Hotel Pennsylvania; New York City, NY

Looking out at the cool morning, a cold morning for March, the ugly monolith of Madison Square Garden stared back at George Caldwell. The stark clarity of the morning attested to its coldness. George grimaced as he watched the people march about down below in a huge crowd, bundled up against the late cold snap, rushing into the nearest empty taxis so they could escape the frigid cold. They moved like one mind, one being. It was as if they were cogs in a machine...

I don’t want to be like that, to be cogs in somebody else’s machine mindless, brainless, effectively pointless. They weren’t their own, they were a part of something else. I want to be my own man, do something of my own, write my own story, damnit! So why do I listen to dad and do this?

Just then there was a knock on the door of his suite. George padded over to the door along the threadbare carpet. He opened the old-school door lock and let the knocker in. A waiter came in and delivered his breakfast on a cart, as well as his bill. George tipped the waiter generously, and thanked him, and the waiter left.

Before sitting down at the table to eat his breakfast, George looked around his room. It was threadbare, poorly furnished, and very old. The Hotel Pennsylvania, once the largest hotel in the world, was a shadow of all it had been. But like so many things left over from the great railroads of times past, it still had dignity, solidity, and a heavy degree of timelessness. There were nicer hotels in New York, he knew, but this was the one he stayed in.

He sat down and started attacking the delicious variation of a dish made to his specifications, eggs burgandian- a dish made by poaching eggs in red wine and beef bullion, then thickening the poaching liquid into a sauce. It was one of his favorite things to eat. The coffee wasn’t bad, either. The Hotel Pennsylvania had fallen on some hard times, but they still provided an excellent cuisine.

College? he thought, Why am I going? I don’t want to go. There is nowhere for me now, nowhere to go. I don’t want to meet some stuck-up college girl who is going to college just to look for a husband. I don’t want to be some middle manager for some big company! I want to work for the railroad, like everybody in my family before me.

Polishing off the delicious breakfast, George looked at the old Rolex Datejust that his mother, Gretel, had bought his dad for their third anniversary in 1980. His dad had given it to him as recognition of him graduating high school. It was old and beat up, on a waterproof calfskin strap, but it kept time and reminded him of his dad.

“Crap!” he cursed aloud, “The train leaves in an hour!”

With that he quickly gathered his belongings and packed them into his old battered trunk, then called for the porter. It had no wheels, and that meant he wanted to have somebody else help him carry it to the station. The baggage would be checked aboard his train, and he would not see it again until he got to Los Angeles.

As he waited, he shuffled into his dad’s old top coat and looked himself in the mirror. The boy that looked back at him was almost a man- at least he thought so. He was broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, well toned from weight lifting and sports. His hair was neatly trimmed, as was his Van Dyke beard and mustache. He was dressed in khaki slacks, a light blue dress shirt, a blue blazer, and penny loafers. His fathers old cashmere topcoat didn’t quite go with the ensemble, nor did the fedora by the door.

With the battered face, broken nose, and the scars, he didn’t look jolly. He was a nice guy, he thought, but god help people who awoke his temper. He could be endlessly generous, or a towering inferno of rage. He had a sense of humor, but it was dry and a bit sarcastic. His sun-bleached blonde hair was a bit long for the current fashion, but he didn’t particularly care about current fashion. His generous 6’1” height intimidated most people, and they were right to be concerned.

Just then there was a knock on the door as a hotel porter well known to him, Jeff, arrived.

“Could you help me carry that to the baggage check desk at Penn Station? And let’s hurry, my train leaves soon.”

“Yes, sir,” the porter smiled; he and Jeff had known each other since George was very young. This was George’s first time here alone, but Jeff knew that his father John was a big tipper, especially for jobs of some difficulty- such as crossing the street to the station.

They rode the elevator down to the decrepit lobby, a shadow of its former self like the rest of the hotel. George didn’t bother to stop by the desk for longer than to flip the key at the desk manager. His father stayed so many times at the Hotel Pennsylvania that he permanently occupied the suite George was staying in. He paid them monthly, and at a fairly discounted rate, too.

As they crossed Seventh Avenue and rode the elevator down to the station, Jeff looked at George and asked, “Ready for college?”

“Not yet,” George grimaced, “But dad says I have to, and so I am. The plus is that I get to ride the Broadway Limited one last time before they discontinue it.”

“You and your trains,” Jeff chuckled, “You’re just like your dad. You and him are the only men I know who would ride a train from New York to Los Angeles.”

George didn’t respond, he just grinned. He- and his father before him- had explained the answer to that question to Jeff many times before. There was no reason to go and beat a dead horse even further.

The elevator doors opened and they rushed the long distance to the baggage check-in counter. deep in the bowels of the remnants of Penn Station, and hauled his trunk up to the baggage checking counter. It was getting late for checking a bag, but George wasn’t particularly concerned. He had some clothes where he was going; it would not be a big deal if the trunk followed him a day late.

“What train?” said the bored clerk with a yawn. The New York City brusqueness had not changed substantially in the intervening 18 years, and some of the pride had faded away with new employees replacing old. George was used to that by now.