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They oozed sickness. Everyone of them. It bled from their every pore. I listened to their disease as it was sneezed, coughed, and sniffled. Mumbled out as they furthered its will. They were all victim to some infection or another anxious to tread new ground. Unwittingly they were victim to each other, packed three deep as they were. Unwillingly I was their victim, packed three deep as I was. God, I hate this ritual. My reward for waking up every morning. It makes my stomach twitch and my throat burn. The man in the hat, his thrift store tweed suit and red rimmed nose, was the worst offender. And so painfully close. So close I fixate on the gently trembling hairs dancing inside those red rimmed nostrils. Vibrating with each exhale and breaking from their rhythm momentarily as he coaxed the will forward to inhale once more. A few inches of breathing room would be a godsend. I can feel the scream churning at the back of my throat. Full of bile and vulgarities bubbling over. Some of it would be a condemnation surely, but the majority would be a simple plea. An inch, a moment, please, just a place to breath without inhaling the sickness surrounding me. Their sickness. Even this close the scream was pointless. Even this close the wailing infant in the back would surely drown me out. Her, or perhaps his, pain infinitely more compelling. Even this close they whispered to each other in the faint traces of what could pass as surface intimacy. Hushed tones blankly critiquing and praising. Inane conversation creating a white noise gibberish. Little to be discerned over the noise of the train. Little of note aside from their wheezing. Why are they so close? They weigh so much for being hollow. Standing on my heels, bumping shoulder and hip, hands lightly grazing against each other on the pole. Jesus, I'd forgotten the pole. If I didn't need it to keep myself from falling in to them I'd release the filthy thing. Surely this could only be the train to perdition. Sharing space with those who spat in the hand of God. It's only fitting their transport be the most uncomfortable means of conveyance ever conceived. Pressing in upon each other. Plotting to suffocate and dispatch the weakest so the rest may have a minute more of extra air. Disassociated hands roaming independently of their masters. Touching and prodding. Groping whatever they find in their path. Seeking a naughty bit to pull a quick thrill from. One of my naughty bits? I need off. I need away from these people. I need to look away from the quivering hairs in the red rimmed nose of the man with the hat and the thrift store tweed suit. He knows I've been watching him. They all know I've been watching them. Inspecting and judging. They tell me as much as they look anywhere rather than meet my eyes. It's the only thing they can do to hide their sick desires. Their need to crush me, to infect me, to fondle me. As the train slows they feign a struggle to maintain balance and compress around me. I need off. I don't care where we are. I need off now. The mob pulsates, reconfiguring and reforming. I try to maintain my step with elbows pressing in my sides, hands grazing at my back, and feet underneath me that aren't my own. Their intention now seems to be my own, throbbing as I'm expelled on to concrete. My legs immediately break in to a sprint. The stairs pass three at a time until I reach fresh air. Only six blocks from work. That's better than most days.
david shute - Jun 9, 2008 at 9:45 PM |
