Southborough Station

The sign on the one-story wood-frame building declared "Fitzgerald’s General Store".  I thought how the term “general store” was a throw-back to earlier times and, being located within an hour's drive of Boston, Massachusetts, it seemed out of place. As I steered to a spot at the perimeter of the unplowed lot facing the tracks, I failed to notice there was a continuous fence separating the parking lot from the blue metal-roofed shelters of the train station.  I had not driven to shop at a general store.

I switched off the engine and headed in the direction of the store behind me. 

It was late afternoon in January. I had left the Embassy Suites in Marlborough, Massachusetts fifteen minutes earlier. Our trip began several hours before that from Syracuse, headed for Medford, Massachusetts that is north of Boston. The stop in Marlborough, on the way to Medford, was for the Innovative Bead Show.  We had plans to have dinner with one of the vendors at the show.

Since the train station did not have a building with a waiting area as I had hoped, I had to locate an alternative place to attend to necessary things before waiting for the train to arrive. The train would be transporting my daughter.  She was meeting us to have dinner. After dinner, we we would drive her back to where she lived in Medford.

After entering the general store, I looked around to see if there was a restroom.  The store had a different look. The items being sold were displayed between narrow aisles in island rows.  The rows closer to the entrance door were parallel to the front. Those toward the rear of the store were perpendicular to the front wall.  It looked more like a corner store than a general store, but not, somehow.  It was just different.

Two people engaged in conversation stood near the door facing toward the front.  I guessed they may have been be waiting for something since they did not appear to be shopping.

I had not walked ten steps down the main aisle before I noticed four or five rows of alcohol for purchase.  I thought they looked out of place. I suppose I still expected to see general-store-like rakes and wheelbarrows and shovels on display. The image I had in my head included two guys of retirement age in plaid shirts and fishing hats sitting on opposite sides of a pickle barrel playing checkers. This place was nothing like that. 

The man behind the counter had black hair and a mustache.  He could have been of Middle Eastern or Mediterranean ancestry. It seemed unlikely that he was a Fitzgerald. 

After locating the rest room toward the rear and to the right, I read the sign printed, in broken English, that I should request to use it before going in.  I walked back to the front and asked Mediterranean Man if it was okay.  He said it was.

Inside the unisex toilet room were cases of various items and a dim ceiling light that grew brighter as I went about my business. I figured it had to be a compact fluorescent lamp, even though it was the color of an incandescent bulb.

I felt guilty about wandering in just to use the facilities, so I grabbed a bag of Frito's on my way back to the door.  After paying for the chips, I left and walked back to the car.

Once I was seated behind the wheel, I looked back and forth at the fence separating the train platforms from the parking lot and realized I had not parked in the lot for the Southborough Station.

I started the engine, backed out of the parking space and drove out of the lot past the general store and around the corner.  There was a sign marking the drive to the Southborough Station parking lot not far from the corner. I turned right and drove past the small lot to the right of the entrance road. It appeared full.  

Above and behind that lot were two parallel railroad tracks and a pair of open shelters with blue metal roofs on both sides of the tracks.  The shelters were connected with asphalt-paved walks next to the tracks that led to concrete grade stairs leading down to street level where the tracks bridged over the road.

I drove to the end of the access road with the tracks to my right and a 300-plus-space parking lot to my left. The lot was almost full.  I found a vacant space and parked.  I read a David Sedaris essay and waited for the train.

My phone alerted me at the same time the train was scheduled to arrive.  By then, dusk had settled over the lot and the station. It was a text from my daughter. She was approaching.  I looked up to see a bright light from the end of my view of the tracks.  As it approached, I heard the sound of the engine. Within a short period of time, the train filled the station and came to a stop near me to the sound of a clanging bell. 

I waited to see where the passengers were getting off.  I could see no one.  Then the train left the station.

Had I missed her?  Did she miss the station?  The text I received told me that was not probable.  I restarted the car and drove back toward the small lot I had passed when I entered.  I noticed more cars lining the road next to the lot.  It was people waiting for other passengers.  When I was near that small lot again, I noticed people walking above at the level of the tracks.

I spotted a vehicle leaving one of the parking spaces.  I figured it would be a good vantage point to spot my daughter.  People were walking past my car on the sidewalk between the vacated space and me. Turning into the lot took more time than I figured.  People walking by and cars leaving the lot prevented me from turning in. One of the drivers near me became impatient and started beeping their horn.  They must have thought I was double-parking or something.  I ignored the sound and found an opportunity to make my turn.  As soon as I had parked in that space, my daughter spotted me and walked over.

After she was inside and her door was closed, I drove out of the lot and headed back to Embassy Suites.  It was time to share stories about what had happened since our last time together.