from 2011. a writer's workshop exercise in observation.
When the automatic doors open, an intense gust of crisp autumn wind rushes in, carrying with it a synthetic potpourri of cigarette smoke, car exhaust, air freshener, cologne, and body odor. All the passengers are shaken then rapidly pushed and pulled in tiny motions with every dip or curve in the track. I feel nauseous. I want more privacy. This long haired hippy is sitting too close to me. He smells like weed. Wait- he got up to help someone who dropped something. He's not so bad.
I cannot get on a train without thinking of my paternal grandfather. He adored reading all about them and constructing model trains in his retirement. I wonder if he ever rode the subway in New York City, the El in Chicago, or the Tube in London. Probably not.
My mind tells me to be cautious or even suspicious in this situation because I grew up in the country where there was no city bus let along light rail train. My dad's voice rings in the back of my mind. His advice from our one and only trip to Chicago as a family when I was 11: Conceal your wallet in your front pocket, don't make eye contact with anyone, but be alert.
The real everyday me is naturally curious about everyone and everything I see. For at least 3 seconds I think about which guys in my immediate vicinity I would like to fuck and which girls need a makeover. Every time I close my eyes I just want to lean against the window and fall asleep. I envision my notepad falling to the floor and all of them huddling around it to see what I have written about them. The sound of the wind whipping past outside and flicker of the dim lights inside have conspired to lull me into dreamland. I think for a moment that I may be hungry but I recall the decadent ice cream sandwich that I ate less than 3 hours ago so I resolve that I will not get anything to eat at the mall. Lastly I feel truly impatient that this is taking so long. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Enough already. I wanna go home.
Silently judging everyone must be something that we all do. I feel guilty about it for a minute but I realize they have all judged me too. When a young woman gets on she must look at me and say to herself "He could not hurt me because he is too fat and I could outrun him." Another might say, "At least I know that guy would not rape me because he is dressed so nicely he has got to be gay." I fear that all the urban teenagers on the train will either beg for my money or steal it and that, in both scenarios, I will have to think of a creative way to keep it.
I can hear my own iPod screaming in my ear. Paramore. Rilo Kiley. Gwen Stefani. Destiny's Child. This is the soundtrack dujour. Above that somehow I also hear the computer voice announcer every 4 minutes with her homeland security talking points. I hear a man talking too loud on his cell phone in English and a husband and wife arguing with one another in Spanish. I hear the sound of a very young girl asking other passengers for money muffled by footsteps in the center aisle. Someone is sleeping and breathing loudly through his nose.
When I try to gaze out the window it is through the filter of a huge ad plastered to the outside of my train car. I lose count as thousands of vehicles are en route somewhere else carrying children, cargo, or nothing. Buildings are a blur. At times I think day has turned into night but the whole train has dipped below ground and picked up speed. My evil brain cannot avoid the image of our train colliding with another train down there. I shake my head because if I conjure it then it will be real and it will happen.
We are a motley crew. Staring at me at me from directly across the aisle is a 20 year old boy with very dark skin and very short hair wearing basketball shorts and a t shirt. I think about telling him 'it's too cold to wear that' but I sense he does not speak English. Seated in front of him is a haggard young woman with greasy hair and wrinkled clothes. She appears to be rehearsing something she has typed while she looks off to the horizon. Behind the boy is a woman discussing with her partner over the phone the idea that she should stop to pick up some fried egg rolls and some fried rice to eat. I see a mother and daughter seated on the other end of the car both using their cell phones to send text messages. One turns to the other to show her a photo and they both smile. I notice a twelve year old boy who has been seated behind me who has fallen asleep. He could be dead for all I know.
A bald fat man stares at a blank crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Wayward travelers with rolling suitcases wander on and off unsure about where they are going or how to get there. I am reminded of the famous quotation "Life is a journey not a destination." Everyone on the train today has someplace else that they would rather be, or in some cases, someplace they are required to be, but nobody wants to be on the train forever, except for maybe my grandfather. It dawns on me then that if everyone's heaven is different then his is probably riding a train.
I cannot get on a train without thinking of my paternal grandfather. He adored reading all about them and constructing model trains in his retirement. I wonder if he ever rode the subway in New York City, the El in Chicago, or the Tube in London. Probably not.
My mind tells me to be cautious or even suspicious in this situation because I grew up in the country where there was no city bus let along light rail train. My dad's voice rings in the back of my mind. His advice from our one and only trip to Chicago as a family when I was 11: Conceal your wallet in your front pocket, don't make eye contact with anyone, but be alert.
The real everyday me is naturally curious about everyone and everything I see. For at least 3 seconds I think about which guys in my immediate vicinity I would like to fuck and which girls need a makeover. Every time I close my eyes I just want to lean against the window and fall asleep. I envision my notepad falling to the floor and all of them huddling around it to see what I have written about them. The sound of the wind whipping past outside and flicker of the dim lights inside have conspired to lull me into dreamland. I think for a moment that I may be hungry but I recall the decadent ice cream sandwich that I ate less than 3 hours ago so I resolve that I will not get anything to eat at the mall. Lastly I feel truly impatient that this is taking so long. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Enough already. I wanna go home.
Silently judging everyone must be something that we all do. I feel guilty about it for a minute but I realize they have all judged me too. When a young woman gets on she must look at me and say to herself "He could not hurt me because he is too fat and I could outrun him." Another might say, "At least I know that guy would not rape me because he is dressed so nicely he has got to be gay." I fear that all the urban teenagers on the train will either beg for my money or steal it and that, in both scenarios, I will have to think of a creative way to keep it.
I can hear my own iPod screaming in my ear. Paramore. Rilo Kiley. Gwen Stefani. Destiny's Child. This is the soundtrack dujour. Above that somehow I also hear the computer voice announcer every 4 minutes with her homeland security talking points. I hear a man talking too loud on his cell phone in English and a husband and wife arguing with one another in Spanish. I hear the sound of a very young girl asking other passengers for money muffled by footsteps in the center aisle. Someone is sleeping and breathing loudly through his nose.
When I try to gaze out the window it is through the filter of a huge ad plastered to the outside of my train car. I lose count as thousands of vehicles are en route somewhere else carrying children, cargo, or nothing. Buildings are a blur. At times I think day has turned into night but the whole train has dipped below ground and picked up speed. My evil brain cannot avoid the image of our train colliding with another train down there. I shake my head because if I conjure it then it will be real and it will happen.
We are a motley crew. Staring at me at me from directly across the aisle is a 20 year old boy with very dark skin and very short hair wearing basketball shorts and a t shirt. I think about telling him 'it's too cold to wear that' but I sense he does not speak English. Seated in front of him is a haggard young woman with greasy hair and wrinkled clothes. She appears to be rehearsing something she has typed while she looks off to the horizon. Behind the boy is a woman discussing with her partner over the phone the idea that she should stop to pick up some fried egg rolls and some fried rice to eat. I see a mother and daughter seated on the other end of the car both using their cell phones to send text messages. One turns to the other to show her a photo and they both smile. I notice a twelve year old boy who has been seated behind me who has fallen asleep. He could be dead for all I know.
A bald fat man stares at a blank crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Wayward travelers with rolling suitcases wander on and off unsure about where they are going or how to get there. I am reminded of the famous quotation "Life is a journey not a destination." Everyone on the train today has someplace else that they would rather be, or in some cases, someplace they are required to be, but nobody wants to be on the train forever, except for maybe my grandfather. It dawns on me then that if everyone's heaven is different then his is probably riding a train.
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