Transitions

As you cross West Kalamazoo Ave. it’s impossible to miss the impressive stretch of brick archways, and a bright blue sign out front that introduces you to the Kalamazoo Metro Station. You approach the waiting room, passing rows of carefully groomed flora in reddish-brown brick inlays that match the color and pattern of the archways. The archways are decorated with old-time, roman-numeraled clocks that are associated with train stations. As each pair of opposing clocks passes by, time seems to slow, the clicking of bicycle wheels to the left slows and deepens, the couple playing patty-cake to your right do the same.

            You pull on the door softly and its handicap assistance takes over, mechanizing your entry into the waiting room. Speckled black and white tile flooring is cut short by determined, vertical grains of strong, dark brown wood walls, varnished to a mirror sheen. The wall paneling has launched a further offensive on the meek tile, scattering the room with benches of the same composition and color as the wall and ceiling, and with backs at an angle too acute for comfortable seating.

            Laughter echoes from every surface, punctuated by stomps of the foot to accentuate the perceived hilarity. These noises come to a halt, replaced immediately by the sounds of rolling suitcase wheels belonging to a couple of muscular travelers who are only using this room as a bridge from the train to the world outside. “This is a nice restaurant,” one muses to the other.

             All the varnished wood adornments shine with the yellowy light diffusing out from two bulbs under the Amtrak sign above the cast iron-barred ticket kiosk. These lights pleasantly overpower the overhead fluorescent inlays in the ceiling, but all light seems to avoid a large sign directing the way to the restrooms and concession counters. Entering the heavily windowed hallway under the aforementioned sign, you pass vending machines and water fountains. You peak into the colorful concession booth, embellished by bright labels of snack foods and energy drinks, containing only enough nourishment to get the traveler to his next stop. Then you come upon the restrooms.

To the left is the men’s, to the right the women’s. Turning to enter the restroom, you are greeted by a full-length mirror revealing to yourself the hardened expression and demeanor of a traveler. A complementing mirror behind you creates the illusion of yourself repeating into infinity. In the top left corner of this unsettling piece of glass is a sticker that informs you that, “For your safety, this area is monitored 24 hours a day by surveillance cameras.”

            It was here on August 17, 2000, where a University of Michigan student of social work named Kevin Heisinger was found in a pool of his own blood. A scream from a 9-year-old boy who stumbled upon the scene alerted authorities of the grizzly occurrence.

            It was lack of surveillance and the unwillingness of adults within a close proximity to the incident that caused a stir in the community, and drove Amtrak and the city to begin working on the new walls and benches, archways and clocks. It was the fact that five individuals were within earshot of the murder when it was happening that pushed for this change. It was the two men who went into the bathroom, saw Heisinger, saw the blood and walked back out and across the street for coffee that put the sticker on the mirror. 

            “I mean, just a simple scream for help might have stopped this individual’s death, And it’s sad that it took a child. And it was still too late,” commented Bea Raymond, chief of staff to Portage Senator Dale Shugars in an interview with the Kalamazoo Gazette.

            The transitory and absent-minded culture of the train station waiting room made the room itself into a permanent resting place for this young man. Those who mistake the station for a restaurant in their mission to get back to their lives don’t have the time or patience to help somebody in need, this room is just a bridge, and its not their problem.

The people that are stuck there during the day, in between trains, or just looking for a warm, dry edifice don’t have the empathy or attention-span to deal with fellow lost souls. They too are stuck in the limbo of the transitory area. They sit and stare blankly, lacking direction and destiny, weaving between the walls and down hallways. One man in a tan jacket drags a four-pronged cane behind his apparently functioning legs. Even a cane is robbed of its purpose if it remains here too long.

The only escape seems to be to challenge the train tracks by foot or bicycle as many do. As you sit with the between-train-ers and stare out the window, every few minutes the flash of a cyclist or a couple laughing carrying plastic bags, or a woman pushing a baby carriage, or even a pony-tailed man on a Vespa appear on the tracks. They have given up on being trapped; they follow the tracks in search of a destination.

The sound of tinny pop music from a pink Dell laptop brings you back, “Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol baby!” This respite is cut short by an armed police officer telling the limbo-dwelling owner of the laptop that she needs to have headphones or turn it off. A woman’s voice replaces the contrived rhythms, “They’re closed, I can’t get a ticket! I’m stuck here ‘till tomorrow!” In contrast, a young girl in aviators squealing, “Let’s go home!” Some are never here, while some are here forever.