I visit the dining car at 8 p.m., last call. For those unfamiliar with train etiquette, strangers are grouped with strangers in an effort to conserve space. Four to a booth, plastic dishes and a faux flower at the window. It’s a close enough approximation of glamor travel. Cary Grant may beg to differ.

My partners this evening are a woman a bit older than my mom and a man I will dub “Augustus.” The woman is pleasant, conversational and fun. And the man is… fat.

Our waiter brings menus and immediately we are doomed: “16 fucking dollars?!” bellows Augustus. He pulls out a spicy chicken wing he brought with him and loads it into his mouth-opening. It’s clever sleight of hand trick, and I’m desperately glancing around the dining car looking for sympathy. A sea of tables, each full of engaging and intelligent, sane train lovers.

We order dinner, veggie pasta for the woman and I, BBQ brisket for Mr. Augustus, and I quickly add a Heineken as antidote. Salads arrive, and I watch globs of dressing fly out of his mouth and onto his tattered, stretched polo shirt. His fork skillfully scrapes his shirt clean and pushes the wayward food back into his gullet.

Our main courses arrive; we begin the small-talk tango.

Me: “Have you heard of Lousie’s in Lawrence, Kan.? The place is famous for the giant “schooners” of beer.”

Lady: “Yes! Believe it or not, I’d go there regularly in the 60’s when I was a student at KU.”

Augustus: “Piece of shit phone!” He slams it into the table. “I should have known that {randomcellprovider} is fucking horrible!”

Us: Silence. Eat food, drink alcohol. Quickly.

Augustus: “I’m going to Concordia, Kan. That Greyhound bus better be there, because I’m meeting a girl from the Internet.”

There’s nothing to say, but eyebrows are arched.

This continues repeatedly: normal conversation peppered with nonsensical outbursts, laced with profanity. He attempts to join a conversation on hot peppers, but derails it with racist remarks on Mexicans.

We discuss the awful state of air travel and delays, and he regales us with a quick story about how he was in prison for about 8 months (or maybe 48, for the details were quickly expunged) and then he apparently senses our terror and adds a little more detail: “You know, I used to have a temper problem.” The older woman orders another drink and I turn my attention to the sherbet sunset outside our window. Darkness follows.

Augustus continues.

“You know those little darts that go in a gun to shoot at dart boards? One time, my friend and I tied this guy up head to toe against a tree and shot about 200 of them into his face. He hadn’t been good to a lady and her kid, so we made him promise to never do that again. I’m sure it hurt a little, because he had little blood marks all over his face. But we didn’t kill him, at least!”

Check, please.