He was tall, wore a top hat, walked an incredibly long distance to return an incredibly small amount of change, had a Vice President named Hannibal who ranks fourth on the list of famous people bearing this unique name behind the elephant obsessed Hannibal Barca, A-Team member Hannibal Smith and Dr. Hannibal Lector human flesh connoisseur, gave the Gettysburg Address, ended slavery and was assassinated by a Latin spewing actor during the funniest line of Our American Cousin forever linking the play to tragedy.
He is immortalized on the penny but more importantly the five dollar bill because pennies are monetary crumbs you leave in a grimy dish at gas stations or chew on while following the misguided advice of of that one bad influence friend who swears it will ensure you pass the breathalyzer you are about to fail. (Note: This is most often times the same friend who insists he knows all the laws regarding illegal activities done during your adolescent years including but not limited to; when cops can enter your house to break up a party, the legality of driving with beer in your car and drug possession laws for all 50 states. Never listen to him. He is almost always the first kid arrested for not knowing when to quit talking). A fate better than that of JFK who has been relegated to currency purgatory along with other obscure notes like the $2 bill and failed dollar coins but undoubtedly worse than Benjamin Franklin whose name has become ingrained with tales of exorbitant wealth and fetishized by the hip-hop community.
This is a short list of things Lincoln is known for. One thing that is not on the list is riding a horse. I would fathom a guess you could expand this list for sometime before riding a horse would make it. Through various social studies, history and government classes I have never seen a single photograph of Lincoln riding a horse nor heard of an equine companion playing any significant role in his presidency or his life at all.
Yet in the dining car of the southbound express train from Bangkok to Hat Yai there is an elderly Thai man who is insistent that he did exactly this. So insistent that he has me wondering if I missed an important lesson in school.
First he outlines a top hat sitting on his head with his hands, mimes a beard on his face, says the name "Abraham Lincoln," which comes out in 5 distinct syllables. "A-bra-haaam Lin-cooln" then begins to shuffle up and down the car a few feet like he is riding a horse, hands below his chin as though gripping the reins of his trusty stead. He has been repeating this sequence for close to forty minutes, stopping only to have a few Falling Rain cigarettes, 39 Baht a pack.
When I say the word, "horse" he grins and nods in approval. I eye the multiple empty liters of Chang beer on his table and begin to wonder about the historical accuracy of his recreation.
What has lead me to this impromptu lesson about the past leaders of the United States is the Ike and Tina relationship with train travel that has yet again left me in the position of the beautifully legged yet loyal to a fault Mrs. Turner.
For 8 hours the train has not moved after coming to a metal on metal grinding halt in a field of brush. The only visible marker is a Courtyard Marriott whose red and green neon sign glows off in the distance.
The colors are fitting. It is Christmas day or at least was when the train departed, it has slipped into Christmas night.
For the first 4 hours of the breakdown I waited with a fellow teacher in our bunks. We tried to predict how long it would take before we started moving again and laughed at the boy across the aisle from us who looked like a young, pudgy Tenzig Norgay as he laboriously attempted to summit the 5 foot ladder to his bed, finally able to pull himself up and lay in a gasping heap after a suspenseful stop on the final rung that had me wondering if I should alert his parents to the precarious situation.
Although this must sound like a slightly cruel form of entertainment he actually got the last laugh by popping his head through our curtains for an unannounced 5am wake-up call the next morning. Karma.
After the round neighbor was put to sleep, I walked the length of the train shifting side to side like a prize fighter avoiding forehead high luggage racks behind two young Thai men who had pointed at their bottles of Leo beer and smiled. It was enough convincing for me and soon I found myself sharing a booth with them in the food car, just opposite of my favorite historical role player.
Aside from Lincoln the man was also interested in Elvis Presley, John Wayne and showing me that he knew the English alphabet, a skill he was more than eager to demonstrate by pressing his pointer finger down on my tattoos while reciting each letter. The tattoos are my brothers initials, they are located on my legs, I'm glad there are not more of them.
By now my curiosity could not be cured by hanging out the window and squinting towards the floodlights that had been set up on the tracks and it was at this exact moment that I got off the train and in doing so gave into one of the most primal urges of man.
It must be embedded deep in the fabric of the male gender, in the code of our DNA, that when something mechanical fails we are drawn to it en masse, gather around, observe the situation, feign expertise and then give an unasked for opinion no matter how uneducated or inexperienced it may be.
Cars, boats with inboard and outboard engines, power tools, computers, DVD players, motorcycles of countless varieties, gaming consoles, all household appliances and consumer electronics. If you posses a Y chromosome you posses the knowledge to fix all of these things or at least the deep seeded belief you have the knowledge to.
"Could be the wheels."
"Looks like a gear problem."
"Bolts are probably stripped."
I found myself narrating the whispers between the small groups of men as they pointed at the train whose cars were now disconnected, each wore a concerned scowl on their face.
One gathering looked to be composed of three generations. The art of the unhelpful side commentary being passed down the family line. An oral history of ignorant interjection.
Camera men arrived with people scribbling notes and I felt like I was on the front lines of something big. But a man in an official looking "Thailand Railways" jacket pointed at a twisted piece of metal on the ground. From people's reactions I assumed this is the cause of our troubles, it was anticlimactic. I realize I was not on the front lines of anything.
The man in the jacket then turned and said we would depart in 5 minutes. I didn't believe him.
I hoisted myself back onto the train and rejoined the group that now included a university student who had a glamour shot of his girlfriend dressed as a nurse in his wallet, a 34 year old who was headed south to work on a rubber tree plantation, the train chef now shirtless, the trotting Lincoln, a fellow teacher and a suspiciously quiet man with an extremely well kept mustache and a tan fedora who retired to bed early. I use retire because that is exactly what men like this do. They do not just "go to bed."
We attempted to to talk more. Switching between English, broken Thai and notes on wet napkins. We shared a cigarette rolled in a corn husk, my throat thanked me in the morning.
As I fell asleep the train shuttered and began to roll again. It had been far longer than five minutes.
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