From Jackson Square to Jackson, Mississippi

As I stood with a musician, waiting to step onto the platform at Jackson, Mississippi, he turned to ask if this was home. Seriously? No accent or Southern belle charm jumps from this sharp tongue.

At this point, the train is my only familiar abode. But it looks like I’ve moved up in the world, for the train to Jackson boasts two levels, meaning better views and more bathrooms. Maybe I feel too comfortable, for my move from an assigned car raised questions amongst the staff. Hey, the other car lacked electrical outlets. The musician, guilt of the same, looked over and shrugged. 

After acknowledging the shrug, I plugged in my dying computer and continued to type.