Chapter 1: On the Train to Destiny

As I sat aboard the train, absorbed in the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks, my thoughts swirled around me like marionettes on strings. I couldn’t recall the name of the town we had just passed through, but about two hours into the journey, a peculiar sensation washed over me. It felt as if I had irrevocably altered my fate with a mere impulsive decision, yet there was an unsettling sense of familiarity in this course I was taking, as if a path had already been carved out for me.

This was not the first time I had encountered such feelings, and I was certain it wouldn’t be the last. Just as the train progressed logically from city to city, the tracks felt like more than just a means of transport; they seemed to foreshadow an inevitable destination, guiding me along like the rails that held the train in place.

I have never been one to subscribe to the idea of déjà vu. If someone had asked me to articulate my feelings at that moment, I would have struggled for words. Instead, I gazed out the window, captivated by how objects approached and receded, and I admitted to myself that I felt a twinge of fear.

Passengers came and went, their faces oddly reminiscent of my own family members. One looked like Uncle Mike, while another resembled Aunt Jane. I found myself scrutinizing these strangers, sometimes unable to look away, and at other times needing to avert my gaze. Despite their diverse appearances, they all shared a common humanity, prompting me to ponder what awaited me upon my arrival.

Would the people I met resemble my family back home? Yet, every image of New York I conjured seemed shrouded in a haze, as though I were peering through a dark veil.

Several individuals took seats next to mine, only to depart at their destinations. With some, I attempted small talk, while with others, silence prevailed, as we sat together without even exchanging greetings. One elderly woman, Eleanor Bridges, spoke to me about her grandchildren and shared their photographs. Then there was Brian Whitaker, a Bible salesman heading to Cleveland, who gifted me a small pocket Bible and preached about salvation. “I was a sinner saved by grace,” he declared, inquiring if I too had found salvation. I hesitated in my response, but he ended our conversation with, “I pray you find the path of grace that our Lord has laid out for you.” This made me reflect on the journey of my own life.

In Cleveland, a young man joined me on the train. He too was bound for New York, taller than I, with hands smooth and unblemished from years of labor, unlike my own, which bore scars and calluses. He sat quietly, seemingly lost in thought, focusing on his hands for an extended period.

“What’s your name?” I finally inquired. “I’m Nigel Fox.”

“I’m Leonard Matthews,” he replied, his reluctance evident.

“Where are you headed?”

“To find my destiny. I believe there is something significant I must accomplish with my life.”

He hesitated before sharing, “New York. I have a job lined up with my uncle.”

“What will you be doing?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m not trying to pry; I’m just bored. I’ve been sitting here quietly for hours.”

“I’m never bored,” he responded, “Ideas swirl in my mind like a symphony.” He paused, then added, “Have you ever thought about how our hands work?” He demonstrated the opposing thumb, marveling at our ability to wield tools. “This is why I can hold a hammer or turn a screwdriver. We can achieve things that other animals cannot. It’s a remarkable feat of engineering in our simple hands.”

I found him a bit peculiar. “Is this what you’ve been contemplating all this time?” I asked.

“Some anthropologists suggest that our dexterity led to the development of technology.”

“Technology? I’ve never heard that term before. Is it new?”

“I suppose so.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s the capacity to transform an idea in your mind into a tangible form, like this train. Someone had to envision it before it could exist.”

His words sparked a cascade of thoughts, and soon I could hardly get a word in. He discussed physics and anthropology, much of which flew over my head, before sharing details about his family.

“My dad works for the telephone company in Cleveland, fixing phone lines,” he said, pulling out a book titled The Principles of Electricity.

“I’ve been studying this,” he continued. “I plan to settle in New York and learn as much as I can about electricity, aiming for a job with a phone company. My mother is a bit worried about me, but I’m confident I’ll adapt quickly. What about you, Nigel? What are your plans?”

“I’m supposed to contact my mother’s cousin when I arrive in New York.”

“Perhaps my uncle can assist you if you struggle to find work,” he said, jotting down an address in Brooklyn for me.

We continued our conversation, and when we parted at Penn Station, I never expected that he would become my closest friend.

In the video "Rising to the Surface: Beneath the Surface," explore the deeper connections and unseen links that shape our lives, much like the journey of Nigel and his unexpected friendship with Leonard.

Chapter 2: The City That Never Sleeps

Stepping into New York felt like entering a different realm altogether, akin to trying to explain colors to someone who has never seen. I had no preconceived notions aside from one: it wouldn’t resemble the farm I grew up on, a fact I quickly confirmed. Emerging from Penn Station, I felt like Marco Polo discovering a new world.

The Empire State Building loomed above, and I craned my neck to view its pinnacle. I recalled a trip to Green Bay with my mother to see King Kong years earlier, imagining the giant ape swatting at planes atop that very building.

I fished out the paper with my mother’s cousin’s address, battling the brisk wind that threatened to whisk it away. Confirming the details, I embarked on a day of aimless wandering. By mid-afternoon, the thought of retreating to Wisconsin crossed my mind, as finding the address felt futile. I frequently confused east with west, and the people I asked for directions appeared just as lost as I was.

It soon dawned on me that many New Yorkers rarely ventured beyond their neighborhoods, where they lived, worked, married, and eventually passed away. The only disparity between New York and Wisconsin was the sheer lack of space in the city.

At Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street, the wind picked up as I searched for my destination, having roamed all over the East Side. I found myself at the edge of the Village, which I learned was an artists’ colony, a haven for bohemians and the avant-garde—a concept I still struggled to grasp.

Markets, fruit vendors, and newsstands filled the streets, with boys vocally selling newspapers. But I remained focused on my quest for my mother’s cousin, Melissa Wilson Brubaker. My mother often spoke of her, recounting how Melissa had moved to the city with her painter husband in pursuit of fame. The last news my mother had received indicated that he had passed away, and that Melissa longed for a familiar face from home.

I knocked on the door of her second-floor apartment, only to be met with a brusque response. “Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying.”

“I’m here to see Melissa Brubaker.”

“Mel ain’t here.”

“When do you expect her back?”

“Look, buster, she ain’t here!”

The door slammed shut, but I persisted and knocked again. This time, she opened it slightly.

“If you don’t scram, I’ll call a cop.”

“I’m Melissa’s cousin from Wisconsin. I’ve traveled far to see her.”

“Mel’s never mentioned any family from Wisconsin.”

“I have her letter in my bag.”

I rummaged through my belongings, producing the envelope.

“Mel’s at work. Come back later.”

“Where does she work?”

“What do you think I am, an information bureau?”

“I would appreciate it if you could tell me.”

“You’d appreciate it? How genteel! She works at a place called ‘Frankie’s’ four blocks west on the left.”

Navigating the streets was a challenge as I struggled to distinguish east from west, but soon I found myself at Frankie’s, a dinner club resonating with music. I had never entered such a venue before.

Inside, there was a small stage, and a heavily made-up woman sang a song reminiscent of spoken word. I settled at a table in the back, awaiting Melissa's arrival.

A waitress approached, expressionless, as if she were a mannequin. “What’s your pleasure?”

“I’d like to talk to Mel.”

“You’re not ordering anything?”

“Do you have soup?”

“Yeah, we have soup. What kind?”

“Chicken, if you don’t mind.”

She left, and shortly after, another waitress appeared. “Yeah, I’m Mel. What do you want?”

“You’re Mel? I expected someone older.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your cousin, Nigel, from Wisconsin. Did you receive my mother’s letter?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what I can do. I have no space, and my landlady doesn’t accept guests, especially men.”

“Can’t you put me up for a few days?”

“I can’t even accommodate myself; I’m behind on rent.” She added, “Order something. It costs to eat and sleep in New York.”

“I ordered chicken soup.”

“Order something else. The manager’s watching me.” She glanced at an older man at the bar.

“What do you recommend?”

“The fish is the only thing edible.”

“Okay, I’ll have the fish.”

Mel seemed anxious about the delay and told me, “I’m off at nine. We can talk then.”

As I waited, I listened to the singer, who performed a series of sardonic songs. At that time, I couldn’t name the genre, but later I would come to recognize it as “the blues.”

Her ambiguous voice reminded me of the Midwest, and as I sipped my soup, I wondered about Mel’s dreams that had led her far from home. Was it ambition? Was she content with her choices? These questions lingered without answers.

I retrieved the pocket Bible from the salesman on the train, but I felt no connection to it. I flipped through its pages, reading snippets, but nothing resonated.

Then, an unexpected encounter occurred. A young man approached my table, mistaking me for someone else. “I’m sorry,” he apologized before leaving. This happened to me multiple times in my initial weeks, leaving me puzzled.

When Mel returned to check on me, she remarked, “You’re crazy for coming to this Godforsaken place. If I had the money, I’d leave tomorrow.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s like Oz. I don’t know why I let David convince me to stay.” Her voice carried a weight of sadness.

“Look, if you pay my two weeks’ rent, you can sleep on the floor. But you have to spend your days elsewhere.”

“Thank you.”

“And once you find your own place, you have to go.”

“I understand.”

After she left, I reflected on the events of my first day. I recognized the superficial meaning of her Oz reference, but it would take time for me to grasp the deeper significance.

I believed in the power of dreams, like the Wright brothers and Alexander Graham Bell, and felt that determination could lead to achievement. At twenty-one, I was unaware of the complexities of life.

After my meal, I wandered the neighborhood for an hour, trying to familiarize myself with the area. I decided to write a letter to my mother, detailing my journey, Leonard Matthews, and my meeting with Mel.

Though I portrayed hopefulness, I felt a tinge of fear. After sealing the letter and placing it in my bag, it was dark outside. I sat on a bench, gazing at the night sky. Little did I know that soon I would regret my decision and contemplate a darker path.

Those initial weeks were challenging. I slept on a rug, wrapped in a blanket, with my bag as a pillow, listening to Melissa snore. Some nights, I heard her murmur in her sleep, calling out for David. She was struggling, but I was ill-equipped to offer support. Each morning, I woke up sore and hungry, embarking on a relentless search for work.

I scrutinized newspapers for job listings, only to find most positions filled by the time I called. After four weeks, I had lost fifteen pounds from eating just one meal a day—fruit, raw vegetables, and white rice from a Chinese restaurant.

From what I observed of Mel, she seemed to cope, but I often returned home to find her in tears, desperately masking her pain. On one occasion, she sat awake all night, fixated on a photo of her late husband, sobbing softly. I longed to console her, but I lacked the understanding to address her grief.

One morning, she asked me to retrieve something from her closet, avoiding the task herself. I found David’s clothes and art supplies untouched. “Someone else could use these,” I suggested, but she rushed to preserve them.

“Not a chance,” she replied firmly.

Paintings adorned the walls, each telling a story I could never know. Despite lacking an artistic eye, I found them captivating.

Mel avoided discussing her husband. When I tried, she would quickly change the subject until, while walking home, she opened up.

“I was thrilled to come to New York, enchanted by romantic visions,” she shared. “With David, it wasn’t so bad. We enjoyed picnics in Central Park. He drew portraits of people we met. I never imagined it would end.”

“How did David die?” I inquired.

“A bus hit him on 42nd and Fifth Avenue. He never saw it coming.”

“That must have been incredibly hard.”

“The hardest part was identifying him. His image haunts me still. It stinks. He brought me here and then left me.”

Her voice carried a mix of anger, sorrow, and regret. I struggled to provide comfort, admitting, “I wish I could relate, but I’ve never lost anyone close to me. I think you’re stronger than you realize.”

“I’m not strong, Nigel. Not at all.” She attempted a smile.

“What are your plans, Nigel? Life here isn’t a circus.”

“I’m not sure yet; I just want a job.”

“Nigel, you’re crazy. Go home to Wisconsin.”

I couldn’t admit that I had made a mistake, despite each day confirming my worsening situation. I clung to the hope that finding a job would improve things for us both. But then, like a sudden eruption, my arrangement with Mel unraveled.

I had failed to grasp the volatile nature of our living situation. One Tuesday morning, I awoke to Mel kissing me unexpectedly.

Had our ages been closer, I might have welcomed it, but instead, I felt violated. She had already restricted my access to the apartment during the day, and now this.

I pushed her away, shouting, “Stop it! Leave me alone!” Grabbing my bag, I fled the apartment, catching a bus that circled Manhattan as my thoughts spiraled into despair.

“How could I have been so foolish?” I berated myself, feeling trapped and contemplating suicide.

I disembarked at Central Park, tears threatening to spill as I watched the rain begin to fall. At that moment, if I could have magically returned home, I would have done so without hesitation.

What a pitiful sight I must have appeared—a twenty-one-year-old farm boy stranded in Manhattan’s downpour. Had the situation not felt so dire, I might have found humor in it. Lacking faith in a higher power, I felt resigned to my fate.

In every man’s life, there comes a time to confront the absurdity of destiny. A man of integrity accepts his circumstances, but I was consumed by anger and self-pity.

Resolute in my despair,