A Different Perspective

I look up at the giant neon red clock.

11:30.

It’s dark outside. It’s dark inside.

The shops are all closed down; only the security lights are turned on. The permanently sleeping dinosaurs have finished showing off for the day. The ticket kiosk and its TVs sit quietly in the middle of the room, having been left by their attendants hours ago.

I push through the silver doors and am greeted by warmth and utter silence. It bears the feeling of an old cathedral, yet not one that celebrates an all-powerful God above, but one that remembers history. The thought of making a noise in the silence almost seems like a crime.

A few silent figures sit at their food courts, presumably waiting for a train to whisk them away from the city. Some of them are with friends or family, some sit alone in the dimly lit room.

The stores and kiosks and exhibits all around are locked up and put to bed for the night, no refreshments for the latecomers. A lone janitor walks from door to door checking the locks. Even though the room is dark and silent, the colors and mosaic on the walls and ceilings are vibrant and loud.

A generator hums quietly from somewhere in the room. You can almost feel the atmosphere of the building slowing down after a long day of kids and parents and students running in and out. Having been to the building during the day, it’s almost surprising that there aren’t still echoes from the activities of the day.

Suddenly, noise! The sound of a train rushing into the station down the hall, coming to a stop.

The scattered people, once again kids, parents, and students stand up, almost simultaneously, and walk as if in a trance towards the sound, and then they’re gone. Their voices are not. Laughs and conversations bounce down the massive hall as they excitedly head towards their train.

Only the men, women, and children on the mosaic on the ceiling accompany me now.

I follow the retro signs down the hall. Unlike during the day, I only have one choice of where to go due to all the barriers and locked doors—the train station itself.

I follow the path set before me and push through the metal doors to the ticketing room. I’m instantly greeted by the sound of conversation. In comparison to the silence in the previous room, the sound is booming. People asking about ticket information, what it’s like in Chicago, train ride lengths. A toddler follows his mother into the baggage check.

In two minutes it will be midnight.

As I walk to the seats in front of me, I stop and look to my left and right—mirrors, their reflections create an endless tunnel. The room ahead of me is miniscule compared to the entrance to the museum—the ceiling is short and the wooden, train-decaled walls are much more crowded. The rows of chairs would make it feel like a theater, if not for the noise.

There are phone booths in the back of the room, long out of use, and the phones all ripped out. The cords are just left, dangling there, like a small child’s tooth that’s about to fall out.

A train horn cries out in the distance. Maybe some of these folks are waiting for a ride, maybe they’re waiting for the train to bring back their loved ones.

People continue filing into the room as time passes. There are no more than ten people, but the room somehow still feels crowded.

Another train horn and another rush as a train pulls into the station down the hall. The room begins to empty as the nightriders walk down the long hallway to catch their ride, but a few remain.

Then, it starts to refill. There are hugs, laughter, and yelling as friends and family are reunited. As they regain their composure, the room empties.

Once again, I’m alone, and once again, the museum and train station are silent.

It’s the same building as it is during the day, but somehow it’s a completely different place. While it explodes with excitement during the day, it’s quiet, almost lonely and melancholy during the night.

I walk back through the mirrored hallway, down past all the closed off corridors and staircases and more old timey phone booths, back into the entryway where I started. As I walk past the ticketing kiosk and the empty food court tables and closed down shops towards the silver doors, the only sound I’m followed by is the echoing of my footsteps.

I look up at the giant neon red clock as I walk back out into the cold.

12:20.