Another Blur Gone By

I have this older-than-I-am corduroy jacket that I wear some days when nothing important has to be done. There is an old Halloween picture of me wearing it with the sleeves rolled up. It was the first of many Halloweens that I dressed as a bum.

This past Friday afternoon, on my way to Captain Lawrence to do a bit of drinking, I rocked my older-than-I-am corduroy jacket and stepped onto the train.

Usually I walk through the train cars, avoiding conductors looking for tickets, because I only have two stops to survive. But with my coat I become one part Mark Twain and one part Sherlock Holmes.

I become one part Kurt Vonnegut and one part Dr. Gregory House MD. I am clever and cunning, agnostic and apathetic, satirical and sexy, hopeless and humorous, observant and odd.

So today instead of dogging conductors like the Gestapo, I casually took my seat and looked around at the people near me.

As I sat, the teenager across from me, no older than 17, had his head down and was reading quite intently into a bag of chips. His buddy was knocking on the window outside on the station platform. Finally I hit my fellow passenger’s leg and pointed up to his friend. His friend, not smiling, gave my fellow passenger a peace sign, stod up straight and walked away. The passenger didn't smile, just gave one simple nod and went back to his bag of chips. He read the bag for a while, like it was the damn Qur'an.

I adjusted my coat as I got comfortable in my seat and started analyzing this kid, trying to learn his story without talking to him. He wore pleated gray dress pants and matching argyle socks, but with dirty white Nikes. He had a white undershirt and a zip up black hoodie. His large book-bag looked light but full. I assumed he had a nice dress shirt, tie, and some dress shoes hiding in that bag. He crumpled his empty bag of chips and put it into his bag, with its large gel straps and padded backing.

The boy was tall and skinny, maybe an athlete, maybe not (not sure how great the HS sports teams are around these parts). Maybe he was just a skinny kid who had just returned from a friend's funeral.

I watched him look out the window of that train like he was a real life version of Michael Lucas. I was less than two feet from him, staring right at him as he watched the world in a blur whiz by. And then, for no reason, he buried his face into his hands. I didn’t hear him cry but his face was red and wrinkled and an earthworm sized vain pulsed from his temple.

The train chimed, and it was my turn to get off. The conductors never caught me without my ticket. I walked off and down the platform, and as the train speed past me I looked up at where the boy would have been. He looked like a blur to me, and I to him.

***

I forgot about him until now, two days later, with a growler of Captain Lawrence Smoked Porter by my side.