G-Eye  By Hal Simpkin 

Chapter One

THE WABASH BLUE BIRD TO CHICAGO thundered through the chill Illinois night. Trains did that regularly, of course, and were it not for the eccentric behavior of the small gray man who came to be my seat companion—this rail trip would not have become significant, and I would not have been able to write that great line.

This trip marked the beginning of a new career, even more, the new life-style I’d envisioned and anticipated. Also, was a little uneasy about. Uneasy, not about what I’d be doing . . . but about the cost. I’d think about that later. On balance, I was ready to go.

And why not? At nineteen I was certain that the world and I were ready for each other. For my part, I was a little taller than average at five feet eleven, weight—average, with no fat. I was agile, with great reflexes. I could play sports, dance and dress, looking all right. A number of girls in high school were sure Frank Sinatra looked like me. Frank would have been close, if he had brown eyes.

What else needs to be told?

~~~

            In another car on the Blue Bird, Friedrich Tobler was keyed up. He was at the beginning of a new business venture. Certainly it was within the scope of his company’s capabilities; nonetheless he’d be expanding into unfamiliar areas. Like any good business leader, he was concerned about this risk. On balance, he felt worried.

His destination in Chicago was the office of an old friend and fellow-member of a pre-war intelligence-gathering organization. The roles of both men had been changed by circumstance and war. His friend was making a career as a U.S. Army officer. Tobler’s engineering design and manufacturing business had burgeoned as the company had dedicated itself nearly 100 percent to the war effort. Now he had a new concept for war machinery to present to the army. But the risks were high. Friedrich Tobler was worried.

~~~

The Wabash Blue Bird had left the Delmar Station in west-end St Louis at 4:58 p.m., northbound for Decatur and Chicago. I had found a seat—one of those that were turned to face the rear of the train. Those backward riding seats were not popular so I had both halves to myself.

We soon crossed the Mississippi River and within 25 minutes had left Granite City, Illinois, behind. I leaned against the wall of the car and watched the largely unbroken view of last summer’s cornfields—now flattened by the harvesters—emerge from behind my left shoulder. The winter sunlight failed early, cornfields gave way to dark shadows. The occasional buildings and trees became dimly defined shapes, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

The coffee I had bought in the snack car was history. Not one for pitching a potential resource I placed the cardboard cup on the windowsill for some undefined future use. I let my head sag against the window pane.

The coach was warm; too warm. Typical for railroad coaches in cold weather. My eyelids were closing. Carly…The next moment, I was asleep.

I don’t know when the man who now shared my seat joined me. When he tapped my shoulder it seemed I’d been aware that he had been sitting beside me for a while. He spoke quietly and confidently. His voice was slow, smooth. Too clipped to be from Missouri. Northern. Northern Illinois, I’d guess.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said. I gave him my first name and offered my hand.

He gestured at my empty cup. “May I?”

I handed it to him with a raised eyebrow. “It’s empty.”

“I’ll use it for my chaw.”  He took out a plug of chewing tobacco. “Let’s switch seats. That way this”—he raised the cup—“won’t be right in your face.”

This gentleman is certainly concerned with my comfort and convenience.

 I was happy to stand and stretch and switch seats. The view out the window was gone. Now, the window was mirroring the interior of the softly-lighted coach. I looked, instead, at my companion. He was a small, gray-looking man with a round head and memorable ears. His hair was gray, his clothes—a single-breasted suit, no tie, shirt open at the collar—were gray. He held a Gladstone bag on his lap. I asked for his name.

“Jenkins, Tom Jenkins.”

He had already sized me up, had seen that I was his junior by three or four decades, and in no way qualified to swap experience-based stories with him. So, he assumed the role of mentor, laying out—from a fairly broad range—some ideas that I believe I was free to adopt or forget on the spot.

The gray man had already identified selling as his profession—although I never learned what he sold. His discourse ranged across salesmanship and roamed over cities of interest, train travel vis-à-vis buses, food preferences and preparation. He moved from the importance of evaluating people

and of making a good impression, to his theory of how to brush one’s teeth. This was important to him—being a chewer of tobacco—and being engaged in a profession where face-to-face dealing was key. He indicated the spot near the hinge of his jaw, where his chaw was placed. “Do not neglect this area.”

The whistle sounded long, short, approaching a curve. Jenkins got up, placed his bag on the seat, started for the aisle, climbing over my legs. Wheel flanges screamed as the car yawed into and through the curve. He steadied himself and moved down the aisle toward the toilet (I presumed) at the back end of the car. I watched him for two or three rows of seats.

After he had gone, I noticed a folded slip of paper on the floor in front of his seat. It looked similar to the itinerary that I was carrying. The address of my Chicago hotel was typed on my note. I picked up the piece of paper. Took in a breath, held it—bewildered. What was typed there was not my travel information, but my name. I turned the paper over, looking for the travel data on the reverse. It was blank. I checked my pockets; my trip plan was there. Jenkins had asked for my name and maybe, being thorough, had written it down for his file. I left it on his seat for him.

What the hell—where did he get a typewriter?

I retrieved the paper as I saw him coming back up the aisle and slipped it into my pocket. Closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. I needed time to mull over the implication of this. And the strangeness of a salesman who never told me what he sold.

Jenkins probably decided not to climb over me again and continued to a car forward of ours.