A SMART Ride
On the Train with Timmy
The conductor stepped out of the door of the two-car commuter train onto the platform at San Rafael station and looked left toward the Golden Gate Transit bus terminal where passengers were busy transferring from one bus to another. The conductor was concerned when he didn’t see a regular passenger trying to make the bus-train connection the morning I took the SMART train (Sonoma Marin Area Rapid Transit). If the bus is late, 3rd Street is not a street you want to dart across against the light to make the connection. He yelled to the engineer standing at the front of the train, “Have you seen Timmy?” He must have answered “no” with a shake of his head so the conductor stood in the open door, checked his watch, then smiled and greeted Timmy as he waltzed through the door. He was in his 40’s in a faded burgundy t-shirt, a tan ball cap with The Beatles written on the front, a small sky-blue backpack dotted with bananas and pineapples that seemed like a child’s school pack, and a green lanyard around his neck which I assumed contained his bus/train pass. He was a little breathless with a big smile of self-amusement as he sat across the aisle from me as if his making the train was never in doubt. I learned from the conductor later that they would hold the door for Timmy for up to 2 minutes and still stay on schedule so he would make it to the creative arts studio for individuals with disabilities in Petaluma, Calif. where he went 5 days a week.
I last rode a bus on the Golden Gate Transit system over thirty years ago, long before the abandoned train tracks found funding for a commuter train to Sonoma County. I would walk a short distance from our cottage on Throckmorton Avenue in Mill Valley, California to the bus depot downtown (formerly the train depot) to catch the 6:30 morning bus to the College of Marin in Kentfield, an express bus delivering young students to the community college. I was one of the students — twenty-two years old — yet I felt outside the traditional student body, already married with two children and one on the way.
The Golden Gate Transit also operated the ferry system with the original hub in Sausalito and a second hub built at Larkspur Landing near San Quentin Penitentiary. Before the Golden Gate Bridge opened in 1937 the auto and passenger ferry was the only way to cross the bay. Annie would drive me from Novato in north Marin where we moved from Mill Valley to the terminal in Larkspur to catch the ferry to San Francisco where I worked as a photographer in an old building under the Oakland Bay Bridge. I would buy a cup of coffee and stand on the bow of the ferry boat as we cut through the fog, passing Angel Island and then Alcatraz, before arriving at the Ferry Terminal and a short walk to the studio. On the way home I would buy a cold beer and sit on the stern deck watching the San Francisco skyline (circa 1989) fade in the distance.
Now I found myself back in Marin County after moving away in 1991. When I left, the idea of claiming the existing track for a commuter train from Sonoma to Marin was just a dream without funding. It felt like I time traveled 33 years when my memory of Larkspur Landing as a gravel pit was immortalized in the Clint Eastwood film “Dirty Harry” when Harry jumped from the train track trestle spanning Sir Francis Drake Boulevard in pursuit of the bad guy. I bypassed years of news articles, updates, successes and failures, cost overruns and delays to now sit in a gleaming train cruising at a top speed of 79 miles an hour getting to know Timmy.
I had taken a non-stop flight from my home in Bend, Oregon on Avelo, a budget airline servicing smaller regional airports like Santa Rosa/Sonoma airport. Tickets are cheap — luggage, seat assignments, and early boarding expensive. I was more interested in the non-stop flight and avoiding the mess of SFO than the price. The train connection to Marin was a novelty to me, a time traveller flying on the rails to visit family in my old home.
I recently heard a podcast with NY Times columnist David Brooks who has written a book, "How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen.” Although he’s known mostly for his political observations, he’s published many bestsellers with a theme of human curiosity, connection and community.
It was clear to me that Timmy was cognitive disabled; his speech was slowed and would grow high in pitch, his inquisitive eyes following each word. He would take time to form his sentences, often pausing and looking up and to the side, then returning to me with the thought he wanted to share with an exaggerated brow expression. I had to listen very carefully to his sing-songy speech in order to understand what he was saying. He sat on the edge of his seat, his body turned toward the aisle, his feet pointing at me as if his intention was to walk over to my side of the aisle and sit across from me. We were the only ones in the second car.
There is a moment when one encounters a person that appears different than us — whether it’s a mental disability or a physical handicap — and we feel trepidation we might say the wrong thing or be disengenuous in conversation. I felt deeply seen by Timmy’s honest countenance and his blue eyes and I felt it was incumbent upon me, like David Brooks suggests, to listen and to know him. I asked him about his hat with THE BEATLES on the front and we were off and running.
“My father went to school with the Beatles,” Timmy exclaimed, as he pointed to his cap. He spoke loudly, trying to enunciate every word clearly, as if knowing, or had been taught, to take time with each thought so his tongue would not get tied. “I was born in Liverpool, where my dad grew up” he said. “My family is still there.” I didn’t detect an accent so I assumed Timmy came to the States as a child. “But my dad died. Before Covid. Of brain cancer,” he said, again pointing to his head, his exuberance deflated for a moment, his head bowing down as if in prayer. He said it with such purity, clarity, and resolve that I could feel his acceptance, yet still sense his grief. I wanted to tell him that my father died two years ago at 91 of old age and how much I miss him, and that I’m in treatment for brain cancer myself, stable after two relapses and lucky to be alive. I paused and yielded in silence to Timmy across the aisle, afraid I would introduce too much of my story and miss listening to his. The quiet moment was his opening to cross the aisle and slide into the seat across the table from me.
As we headed North making stops at the Marin Civic Center, Hamilton, Novato and San Marin, the morning sun rose from the Oakland hills across the bay illuminating us and the table between us as we rattled on, flickering shadows from trees and telephone poles speeding across us like a vintage movie hand-cranked on hyper speed. I asked Timmy where he was headed and I learned he goes to an creative studio in Petaluma five days a week to work on arts and crafts. He likes to paint, working mostly with acrylics, with many of his paintings the subject of famous London landmarks like the Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, and the London Eye. His latest painting is a scene of a red double-decker London bus. I wanted to tell him my wife and I were recently in London before going to France to celebrate my survival from cancer and my delayed 60th birthday, but again, I was silent so I could listen. Timmy asked me to come with him to the studio to see his work. He sells them and wants to raise enough money to travel to England next year to see his family. I explained to him that I had a plane to catch and wouldn’t have time this morning. He kept asking “Why?” and all I could do was repeat myself and offer to stop by the next time I was in Petaluma.
Our conversation moved on to our favorite movies with me prompting Timmy to list his favorites. He would mention a movie like “The Goonies” and would laugh, reliving scenes in his head and asking me “Did you like that one?” We were approaching the Petaluma station when he brought up his favorite movie, “E.T.” He asked me if I liked it too and why E.T. ate Reese’s Pieces. “Why?” he said. As the train slowed to a stop Timmy lifted his index finger in the air toward me and in a slow, gravelly voice he said, “El-li-ot.” I held up my index finger and touched his and promised I would come to the studio one day.
I found a photo of Timmy holding one of his paintings at the non-profit creative studio of Alchemia, Art Without Labels in Petaluma, California. He’s the first photo on the About page opposite their mission statement. If you’re considering a year-end gift, this would be a valuable place to donate.
Thank you for sharing this story, Lars. I was right there with you.