Post by Cullen on Feb 13, 2013 3:23:22 GMT -6
(This is still an early draft, creative non-fiction)
The uncomfortably familiar smell of the train station became all to present the second I stepped foot inside the door. The auburn tiles felt hard underneath my neon green flip-flops. I looked across the room and saw a woman and her child, they both had dark skin and more luggage than one would take on a weekend trip. I wondered where they were going — It had to be somewhere south, the next train was southbound after all. The boy was moving with the avid curiosity of a child — fitting. He looked to be testing the various chairs to see if one’s pale plastic exterior were more comfortable, to see if the patterns of dried chewing gum plastered to the bottom of each held a more significant meaning, or if perhaps someone left some change he could later use to buy a soda. I walked forward and approached the three-inch thick glass surrounding the ticket man’s desk.
“Hi, I’m picking up a ticket for Cullen Donohue,” I said, entering into the formal ritual that probably haunted this man’s dreams.
“Can I see an ID?” He asked.
“Yup.”
“Thank you.” He replied again, I recognized this man, his gray moustache was familiar, the way his glasses didn’t seem to fit quite right, the way he seemed upset with working the night shift. This was a conversation he and I had shared many times before, though I could only assume he didn’t recognize me. Since our previous encounter, I had bought a new suit, though my backpack still had the same holes and baggage tags, it does to this day. I let my thoughts slip into the ritual I’d become accustomed to, grabbing the ticket, thanking him, then going to find a seat.
I chose one farthest from the door. I enjoyed people watching and a place away from the door made sense for that reason. I pulled out a book, I believe it was a copy of “Through the Looking Glass” by Lewis Carroll. A personal favorite of mine. I have become familiar with those words. I, to this day, can recite the first few pages. I didn’t plan on reading it, but it gave my hands something to do while I observed.
The only other people were that woman and her child. He looked to have progressed halfway around the room by this time, I wondered how long they had been waiting.
“Don’t touch that, you need to go wash your hands,” she barked at him — she in a tone a mother should use when instructing a child who is touching the undersides of chairs in a public transportation facility. And he, like a good little soldier obey the words of his mother, his elder, the past generation that is so full of knowledge. He walked to the bathroom, opened the door, and I can only assume washed his hands.
He reappeared from the door a few seconds later, with a fire burning inside him, he would find out which chair was indeed the best. He moved on to the chair one seat to the left of the previous one, and she scolded him again.
“You need to go wash your hands.”
This turned into a cycle. With enough practice I could have learned to count time with their system. He investigated, she scolded, he obeyed, he returned. Over and over again. After four or five of these cycles a newcomer entered the building.
Her hair fell about shoulder length, and I could see from across the room that her eyes had a violent emerald color. The attitude in her step conveyed innocence, and yet, knowledge. I wondered where she was heading. I wanted to know her name. She smiled as she walked up to the ticket counter, I wanted to know if she rode the train often. (She and I would end up riding that train together and have some very nice conversations, her name was — is — Molly. She smelled of peach-scented shampoo and she would fall asleep on my shoulder that evening. We haven’t crossed paths since.) At that moment, I was searching my mind’s lexicon for a way to describe her, she intrigued me. She sat in front of me, facing the door, she pulled out a book and began reading it.
“You need to go wash your hands,” the boy’s mother spoke. I had lost count, I didn’t know what time cycle we were on. And then another couple people entered the room.
A man in his 60s walked through the door, followed closely by a boy in his mid-teens. The way the elder gentlemen walked screamed military, though I didn’t know what branch, I figured he had to have fought in Korea or Vietnam. The boy who followed him looked timid and held a iPod close to his chest, a sad effect of the generation I am part of, we cling to the things that isolate us from the world. Molly and I held the books, this boy held an iPod.
The boy walked in with a coffee — I forgot to mention that — as did his grandfather. Sitting with his mind in another world, the boy spills his coffee. His grandfather tells him to clean it up. The boy obeys, he listens to his grandfather. The one who’s knowledge and experience can only speak of good and right. He comes back with paper towels from the bathroom, and wipes up the coffee. Upon throwing the used paper towels away, his grandfather tells him to wash his hands.
At this point I am inspired to write — the absurdy of the phrase that kept repeating itself was too much to dangle in front of someone. I grabbed a notebook from my backpack only to realize that I didn’t bring a pen. I am inspired to grab a cup of coffee.
I get up to grab a coffee from the machine in the corner, in all honesty, I wanted to see Molly’s eyes again. As I approached the machine, the boy came back from washing his hands, I had lost count and didn’t bother trying to pick up the beat any more. A man walked in while I waited for the machine to pour my brew. Molly turned a page, the boy tried another seat. The military man referred to a harbor in Virigina, he was telling his grandson that it would be a few days until they made it to Virginia. He approached the posters that were sitting on the wall behind my seat. I walked back towards my seat, examining the posters as I passed them, one was for a ski resort I frequented as a child, something I was familiar with advertised as if it were something spectacular.
The woman tells her child to go to sleep, he moves to a chair across the aisle from hers and lays across it an the next one. Clearly he had found his favorite. The train was late.
The man said hello. He introduced himself, and we got to talking. I told him I had just started copy-editing for the local newspaper, he told me he was retired. I told him about college, he commented on how good it is to see young people working in the real world. He told me of friends that had died, I shared war stories of relatives who are long gone. He asked if I knew anyone overseas now. We discussed my friends that were. We discussed a lot of things. And I don’t care to remember most of them.
I soon realized that this man was born sometime in the late 1930s, a time I would consider ancient, he spoke of the economy as if it were old news, and he had experience the great Depression, and scoffed at the idea of the Great Recession. He spoke of the war — the big one, World War II — he said all the great leaders were lost in those days. He spoke highly of Churchill, he understood Hitler’s ability to lead though despised the man as everyone should. But something about that comment later made its way back into my mind. He later stated, “all liberals have something genetically wrong with them, and that it is something he thinks we should fix.” (They may not be his exact words, though that was the gist.) I drew a comparison to one of the “great leaders” of his time and his way of thinking. I began to wonder how someone who had lived through so much bigotry and hate could still hold onto more of it.
He looked to my wrist. His eye clearly caught the rainbow-colored wrist-band reading the word “ALLY” across it. I could read the disgust on his face, he immediately jumped to the topic of religion. Funny how supporting gay rights gets religion brought up so much.
“If people just listened to the bible, the world would be a better place,” he said, he began explaining how the christan bible was the only thing that we should be listening to.
“Yeah, well all religions abide by the same principals, be good to thy neighbor, don’t kill, don’t steal, and what not.”
He told me I was wrong, though he could not state an example. I could read his face wanting to bring up that passage in leviticus — the one that gay-bashing groups recite. Though he didn’t bring it up, he knew I was ready to reply. I’m not gay, though I have had this same conversation too many times to not know my way around the passages and commonly quoted arguments. He could see I was well read. And this alone caused him to bite his tongue.
He stepped towards the windows. Looking into the darkness as if he were imagining a world where he was right. He seemed unprepared for someone to question him. He probably hadn’t been argued with in a long time. People treat their elders with respect. Because they’re supposed to be the knowledgeable, wiser, lesson-teachers that we should listen to.
My knowledge was a silent protest, a smirk to the glares he was ready to give. I know that even if things in the world right now aren’t right, we will get there.
He spoke to the window, or to me, I’m not sure which. “Bad things are coming, I can’t describe them because I’ve seen similar things happen. This world is going to fall apart.” He no longer held the tone he did when talking of the wars our country fought, but his eyes read as a reference to something else. I thought it then, and I think it now. He was referring to suffrage and African-American rights.
I was too tired to listen to the ramblings of an old man, who even while listening wouldn’t learn to step away from the ways of his parents. I stood. This drew a look from everyone in the room, except the child who slept on the chairs.
“I’m sorry, but I need to wash my hands..,” I said, pausing as I walked by the mother who’d been listening intently to our conversation, “.. Of this.” I stepped into the bathroom, I caught the mother’s fleeting smile, a silent protest to the man, a silent encouragement to me. I stepped into the bathroom and let the steaming water run over my hands. I stepped back into the room. I went and sat back in my seat, the pale, hard plastic couldn’t have felt better.
The uncomfortably familiar smell of the train station became all to present the second I stepped foot inside the door. The auburn tiles felt hard underneath my neon green flip-flops. I looked across the room and saw a woman and her child, they both had dark skin and more luggage than one would take on a weekend trip. I wondered where they were going — It had to be somewhere south, the next train was southbound after all. The boy was moving with the avid curiosity of a child — fitting. He looked to be testing the various chairs to see if one’s pale plastic exterior were more comfortable, to see if the patterns of dried chewing gum plastered to the bottom of each held a more significant meaning, or if perhaps someone left some change he could later use to buy a soda. I walked forward and approached the three-inch thick glass surrounding the ticket man’s desk.
“Hi, I’m picking up a ticket for Cullen Donohue,” I said, entering into the formal ritual that probably haunted this man’s dreams.
“Can I see an ID?” He asked.
“Yup.”
“Thank you.” He replied again, I recognized this man, his gray moustache was familiar, the way his glasses didn’t seem to fit quite right, the way he seemed upset with working the night shift. This was a conversation he and I had shared many times before, though I could only assume he didn’t recognize me. Since our previous encounter, I had bought a new suit, though my backpack still had the same holes and baggage tags, it does to this day. I let my thoughts slip into the ritual I’d become accustomed to, grabbing the ticket, thanking him, then going to find a seat.
I chose one farthest from the door. I enjoyed people watching and a place away from the door made sense for that reason. I pulled out a book, I believe it was a copy of “Through the Looking Glass” by Lewis Carroll. A personal favorite of mine. I have become familiar with those words. I, to this day, can recite the first few pages. I didn’t plan on reading it, but it gave my hands something to do while I observed.
The only other people were that woman and her child. He looked to have progressed halfway around the room by this time, I wondered how long they had been waiting.
“Don’t touch that, you need to go wash your hands,” she barked at him — she in a tone a mother should use when instructing a child who is touching the undersides of chairs in a public transportation facility. And he, like a good little soldier obey the words of his mother, his elder, the past generation that is so full of knowledge. He walked to the bathroom, opened the door, and I can only assume washed his hands.
He reappeared from the door a few seconds later, with a fire burning inside him, he would find out which chair was indeed the best. He moved on to the chair one seat to the left of the previous one, and she scolded him again.
“You need to go wash your hands.”
This turned into a cycle. With enough practice I could have learned to count time with their system. He investigated, she scolded, he obeyed, he returned. Over and over again. After four or five of these cycles a newcomer entered the building.
Her hair fell about shoulder length, and I could see from across the room that her eyes had a violent emerald color. The attitude in her step conveyed innocence, and yet, knowledge. I wondered where she was heading. I wanted to know her name. She smiled as she walked up to the ticket counter, I wanted to know if she rode the train often. (She and I would end up riding that train together and have some very nice conversations, her name was — is — Molly. She smelled of peach-scented shampoo and she would fall asleep on my shoulder that evening. We haven’t crossed paths since.) At that moment, I was searching my mind’s lexicon for a way to describe her, she intrigued me. She sat in front of me, facing the door, she pulled out a book and began reading it.
“You need to go wash your hands,” the boy’s mother spoke. I had lost count, I didn’t know what time cycle we were on. And then another couple people entered the room.
A man in his 60s walked through the door, followed closely by a boy in his mid-teens. The way the elder gentlemen walked screamed military, though I didn’t know what branch, I figured he had to have fought in Korea or Vietnam. The boy who followed him looked timid and held a iPod close to his chest, a sad effect of the generation I am part of, we cling to the things that isolate us from the world. Molly and I held the books, this boy held an iPod.
The boy walked in with a coffee — I forgot to mention that — as did his grandfather. Sitting with his mind in another world, the boy spills his coffee. His grandfather tells him to clean it up. The boy obeys, he listens to his grandfather. The one who’s knowledge and experience can only speak of good and right. He comes back with paper towels from the bathroom, and wipes up the coffee. Upon throwing the used paper towels away, his grandfather tells him to wash his hands.
At this point I am inspired to write — the absurdy of the phrase that kept repeating itself was too much to dangle in front of someone. I grabbed a notebook from my backpack only to realize that I didn’t bring a pen. I am inspired to grab a cup of coffee.
I get up to grab a coffee from the machine in the corner, in all honesty, I wanted to see Molly’s eyes again. As I approached the machine, the boy came back from washing his hands, I had lost count and didn’t bother trying to pick up the beat any more. A man walked in while I waited for the machine to pour my brew. Molly turned a page, the boy tried another seat. The military man referred to a harbor in Virigina, he was telling his grandson that it would be a few days until they made it to Virginia. He approached the posters that were sitting on the wall behind my seat. I walked back towards my seat, examining the posters as I passed them, one was for a ski resort I frequented as a child, something I was familiar with advertised as if it were something spectacular.
The woman tells her child to go to sleep, he moves to a chair across the aisle from hers and lays across it an the next one. Clearly he had found his favorite. The train was late.
The man said hello. He introduced himself, and we got to talking. I told him I had just started copy-editing for the local newspaper, he told me he was retired. I told him about college, he commented on how good it is to see young people working in the real world. He told me of friends that had died, I shared war stories of relatives who are long gone. He asked if I knew anyone overseas now. We discussed my friends that were. We discussed a lot of things. And I don’t care to remember most of them.
I soon realized that this man was born sometime in the late 1930s, a time I would consider ancient, he spoke of the economy as if it were old news, and he had experience the great Depression, and scoffed at the idea of the Great Recession. He spoke of the war — the big one, World War II — he said all the great leaders were lost in those days. He spoke highly of Churchill, he understood Hitler’s ability to lead though despised the man as everyone should. But something about that comment later made its way back into my mind. He later stated, “all liberals have something genetically wrong with them, and that it is something he thinks we should fix.” (They may not be his exact words, though that was the gist.) I drew a comparison to one of the “great leaders” of his time and his way of thinking. I began to wonder how someone who had lived through so much bigotry and hate could still hold onto more of it.
He looked to my wrist. His eye clearly caught the rainbow-colored wrist-band reading the word “ALLY” across it. I could read the disgust on his face, he immediately jumped to the topic of religion. Funny how supporting gay rights gets religion brought up so much.
“If people just listened to the bible, the world would be a better place,” he said, he began explaining how the christan bible was the only thing that we should be listening to.
“Yeah, well all religions abide by the same principals, be good to thy neighbor, don’t kill, don’t steal, and what not.”
He told me I was wrong, though he could not state an example. I could read his face wanting to bring up that passage in leviticus — the one that gay-bashing groups recite. Though he didn’t bring it up, he knew I was ready to reply. I’m not gay, though I have had this same conversation too many times to not know my way around the passages and commonly quoted arguments. He could see I was well read. And this alone caused him to bite his tongue.
He stepped towards the windows. Looking into the darkness as if he were imagining a world where he was right. He seemed unprepared for someone to question him. He probably hadn’t been argued with in a long time. People treat their elders with respect. Because they’re supposed to be the knowledgeable, wiser, lesson-teachers that we should listen to.
My knowledge was a silent protest, a smirk to the glares he was ready to give. I know that even if things in the world right now aren’t right, we will get there.
He spoke to the window, or to me, I’m not sure which. “Bad things are coming, I can’t describe them because I’ve seen similar things happen. This world is going to fall apart.” He no longer held the tone he did when talking of the wars our country fought, but his eyes read as a reference to something else. I thought it then, and I think it now. He was referring to suffrage and African-American rights.
I was too tired to listen to the ramblings of an old man, who even while listening wouldn’t learn to step away from the ways of his parents. I stood. This drew a look from everyone in the room, except the child who slept on the chairs.
“I’m sorry, but I need to wash my hands..,” I said, pausing as I walked by the mother who’d been listening intently to our conversation, “.. Of this.” I stepped into the bathroom, I caught the mother’s fleeting smile, a silent protest to the man, a silent encouragement to me. I stepped into the bathroom and let the steaming water run over my hands. I stepped back into the room. I went and sat back in my seat, the pale, hard plastic couldn’t have felt better.
