Free Talk Stories by Jamaica Kincaid

“We have everything down there that you have up here. Same fashions, same music. Except for Colonel Sanders. We don’t have a Colonel Sanders. But I know that if we did, it would go over very well.”
    We asked her if there was an EST or an Arica Institute or any other kind of consciousness-raising group there.
    â€œWhat are those?” she asked.
    We explained as clearly as we could what those are.
    â€œOh,” she said in an overly polite tone of voice—a tone of voice (we remembered it from past conversations with this young woman) that she uses to people when she thinks they are being really silly, or going too far.
    We asked if The Fonz was popular there.

    â€œThe Fonz,” she said. “What’s that?”
    We told her that The Fonz was a popular character named Fonzie, in a popular American television show. We told her how he styled his hair and the kinds of fifties clothes he wears, and we showed her his thumbs-up gesture.
    She brightened up at this and said, “Well, we haven’t heard of him yet, but even if it takes years we’ll know about him. We pick up all the really good, stylish American things.”
    â€” October 25, 1976

Notes and Comment
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    We’ve just received a message from a friend—a very young woman, born into a world of air transportation. She writes:
    Half past ten at night on the first of January, 1977, at the Amtrak train station in Cleveland, waiting to catch the eleven-five to New York. But the eleven-five will be at least an hour late, so I join the rest of the roomful of travellers in cursing the people who run the trains. At twelve o’clock, the train actually arrives, and everyone tries to get on first and so possibly install herself or himself in a window seat. I manage to get a window seat, but my overhead light doesn’t work and I am not able to read. For the first ten minutes that I am in my seat, the seat beside me remains vacant. I throw my coat in it, so that it will look as if the occupant just went for a stroll into another car, and then I put on a tremendous frown, hoping to look so unpleasant no one will say to me, “Is anybody sitting here?” This way, if I feel like it later on, I can curl up and sleep comfortably. My little ruse doesn’t work: a young
woman comes along and asks, “Is anybody sitting here?” She sits down, and I look out the window. It has been snowing for days, so there is much snow on the ground, and it is white and beautiful and the night is clear and beautiful. I look at the woman seated next to me. She has open on her lap a large textbook, and I can see that it has something to do with natural childbirth and progressive child care. The woman turns to me and asks me my destination. When I tell her, she says, “That’s where I am going, too,” and then “Do you know that it took them three hours to get from Toledo to Cleveland?” And, without knowing what the normal time is for getting from Toledo to Cleveland, I join her in criticizing the people who run the railroad.
    At half past two in the morning, the train makes its first stop since leaving Cleveland—at Erie, Pennsylvania—and many people get off, but I don’t see anyone boarding. From the train I can see nothing with color in Erie, Pennsylvania, except, in the distance, two glowing golden arches. The woman who was sitting next to me has gone off to find a double seat she can sleep in. I decide to walk around. The car ahead of mine is in complete darkness. All the blinds are drawn, and all the people are sound asleep. It is very snug and warm in this car. Later, the conductor tells me that the lights in this car don’t work at all, whereas the heating works too well. I walk up to the dining car, which is four cars away and open only for lounging. There are two waiters in the dining car, and the moment they see me they start saying almost crude things to me. I am not flustered