Does the fridge light really go off when you close the door?

Sitting on my backpack outside Seattle's train station, a woman asks me for a cigarette. Take two, I say, like my brother always says when someone asks him for a smoke. They're only small.

Why, thank you, she says. Are you taking the Chicago train? She's in her sixties, I think, dressed from head to toe in white, with a pair of oversized sunglasses hiding most of her face.

Yes, I tell her. But I'm going to spend some time in Montana along the way.

Not a whole lot in Montana, she says, just like everybody always says when you tell them you're going to Montana. What do you do for a living?

What do I do for a living? Nothing at the moment, I suppose. Nothing at the moment, I say. What about you?

Me, I'm an inventor, she says, shaking out her match.

Goddamnit. An inventor? Why did I tell her I do 'nothing'? I could've been a zoo-keeper or an astronaut. I could've been halfway to the moon by now! In America, if you want to say you're an inventor then you can say you're an inventor; nobody is going to mind. You could also be a zoo-keeper or an astronaut. If you're the skinny black son of a Kansas woman, you can be the next president of the United States, if you like.

What a great job, I say, full of pride and encouragement for my fellow man. What do you invent?

I invented the pocket-book light, she says, opening up her purse. You see?

I look into her handbag, lit up by a tiny light-bulb. I can clearly see all her old tissues; her box of matches; a tiny bottle of champagne. Wonderful! I exclaim.

It goes off again when you close it, just like your refrigerator at home, she says, snapping it shut again. So, why Montana?

Why Montana? I can't really remember, except that there was a point last summer when I decided I really needed to spend 36 hours by myself, crawling through an empty landscape on a train.

It's okay, she says, and I realise I've hesitated. You don't have to explain.