New "chapter" for All Hail

September 16, 2008
7:33 A.M.

The Metra creaks and squeals with its heavy load at the very beginning of its journey to that great city of Chicago. The morning is relatively quiet to appease the sleepers, those that stay up too late to rest their bodies and focus their energies.

Four rows in front of me there are two young, casual business-looking gentlemen sitting right next to each other wearing slacks and green polo shirts. They both wear sunglasses as if the light might burn them. They laugh the same way letting their upper alveolar bones protrude and the corners of their mouths cave in for a somewhat smug expression. As if the world was funny only to them.

One pulls his glasses down and smiles in this way. He speaks with his lips carefully forming the sounds he intends to make. A careful man. Careful enough to keep his words inaudible to predators like me. The other nods his head in agreement. They speak in hushed tones and don’t mind the closeness. They must be brothers. I won’t go far enough to say they are lovers as much as I may want to. They are at least friends.

Seven, eight, nine, ten people board the train at the Bartlett station. The first seven get on quick and quickly rush past me, either knowing their ultimate destination or sure that something about this car is ‘a little off.’

The next three are different and here’s a point for a true observation. The three stragglers walk the length of the car slowly, surveying each and every seat they pass before unhappily wandering on. Like scavengers, they are aware of their surroundings, prepared to swoop once they’ve found their kill. They still have hope that there is an empty seat so that they might enjoy their solitude in this barreling vessel. They spend their extra time to find this little, personal space.

One straggler with slicked back black hair and a brown jacket decides on a seat not too far from me. He sits down, but looks defeated.

“What, are you lost, Bruce?” inquires a woman in the row directly in front of me. Suddenly, his burden is lightened and he no longer worries about his basic human need to be alone. He stands and reverses the seat directly in front of me so he might share some intimacy with the woman.

“Yeah, can’t seem to find the perfect seat,” he confides. “No such thing I guess.” He is warm now, inviting. He speaks openly about financial woes, familial difficulties, trouble with the law, etc., etc. He shares his mind to a pock-marked woman who has a deep, raspy, unearthly voice and too much eye shadow.

“I slept okay. I slept too well,” says the woman. “Almost missed the train.” What a tragedy that would have been. The All-Mighty Metra stops for no one.

“I forgot my watch today. Oh, great,” mumbles Bruce staring at his wrist. There’s that obsession with time again.

“At least you didn’t forget your cell phone,” answers the woman. Now that would have been a tragedy. There’s so much connectedness between humans today, but only so long as there is distance and a receiver between.
The man and woman in front of me speak of their disgust with how quickly people jump into relationships. It shows their maturity, their wisdom.

“My mother was married four times,” the woman says tiredly.

My attention is drawn to a young man on my left wearing a stocking cap and resting the weight of his body on his left elbow in a very relaxed and casual posture. He is obviously a student.

“I called her, like, four times last night,” he says to his friend across from him. Now I am faced with a choice. There are two full-fledged conversations happening around me and I have but one mind to focus. On my left the conversation has turned to clothes and in front of me the conversation has turned to bartenders and ruminations about life and money. I wonder where exactly I fall into place.

A small fleet of planes lies dormant in an empty airstrip outside. I ache for such a waste.

The two facing me, the student and the lady with the raspy voice, are dominating the conversation. Is it that they are particularly interesting, or is it that those that face the opposite way (such as myself) have a particular capacity for listening? I’m not quite sure.

All their talk about time and money remind me that I am not getting paid in the position I am in currently. Yet, they’re worth it, these wonderful people in front of me that do not care what words I steal for my own.

The woman and man interest me more as she sits with her hands folded on her lap, centered like Buddha. Bruce is doing most of the talking now, but it seems she has all the answers.

The student talks about fantasy football. “If you watch any, like, expert shows like that, that’s what they’d tell youuu,” he says. He always ends on a higher note as if he is always questioning.

The woman could probably answer. The Great Ruminator could make an experience on any expert show. Just look at her, silently watching, listening, all-knowing.

“Well, you can,” she says definitively. The pock marks are evidently marks of wisdom, a woman who has weathered the storm. Yet, the train drowns her out with its infinite hums. Don’t challenge the wisdom of the All-Mighty.

I bet she lives alone, eating Ben and Jerry’s in the dark, in a one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor. Too high to be able to escape a fire and too low to truly jump to one’s death. I wonder if this is where Buddha lived. Was his enormous stomach the result of too much Ben and Jerry’s?

Bruce tells a story about the police outside of his home, but he doesn’t finish in anticipation of the Ruminator’s answer. He is a loyal follower.

The other end of the car is all silence, people staring blankly as if the spotlight hadn’t turned on them yet. I’m reminded of a play I took had a role for in high school. It was a symbolic rendition of Alice in Wonderland and the beginning was completely dark with eerie music. The major players stood behind the curtain as it pulled up, but each was completely still until a spotlight shined on them. Then they were to move slowly, eerily as if being controlled by invisible strings. I wonder if my observing the other end of the car would turn them into major players.
My side of the car is full of the vibrant hum of morning chatter. This morning I attract harmony.

“I had a girlfrieeend earlier in high school,” says the student in the stocking cap. The Ignoramus which can be a noble profession, but the train squeaks annoyingly to mimic his speech pattern. It tries to warn him of his ignorance and he refuses to change. “The tattoo was like a staaar, kind of burned ouuut.”

I knew a girl like that once named Melanie. She owned thirty different pairs of flip-flops to match any outfit she might have. She always chewed gum and she was always asking questions. “How many states are there agaaain?” she would ask (or say, we could never really tell). “There’s fifty-two right? No! Forty-eight?”

I take a moment to study the Ignoramus. He has a double chin from double cheeseburgers, is un-showered, unshaven and wears a black zip up hooded sweatshirt.

The Ruminator halts the Ignoramus by raising her outstretched fingers. She’s shielding herself from the ignorance. The squeaks get louder. Is she controlling them?

“Mum, mum, mum,” hums the foreign man who has chosen to sit next to me repeatedly feeling the harmony across all language barriers.

“Mum,” says the foreign man.

“Oh, reallyyy?” asks the Ignoramus.

The Ruminator is beyond words now, mumbling something incoherent to us mere mortals. The train quiets down and so do the people as it creeps more slowly to its final resting place. The brothers are still smiling beneath their sunglasses in their back and forth.

“That’s federal law right there, man,” says the Ignoramus. Even he has to feel the obvious slowing down.

Foreign, worldly music flows through the final silence. It is a kind of Hindu yodeling, releasing its spirit into the silence mimicking a soul travelling to safety. The All-Mighty gives one last heave, consuming the soul for good, trying to carry the world to the very end of its track.

Bruce sits at the edge of his seat and nearly jumps as the Great Ruminator speaks. “This is terrible,” she says retrieving the cup of coffee from between her knees. She throws it to the ground, ultimately ridding herself of her worldly possessions.

Bruce has found his perfect seat, the Seat of Infinite Wisdom, and I rest assured that at least one worthy traveler has been saved. I contemplate my perfect seat and I think maybe two travelers have been saved as I stare out at the rest of the car with my pen flying, trying to take down all the critical minutia of this pivotal moment. Jesus left it to his most loyal followers to record his teachings. Perhaps the Ruminator has the same in mind.

“In my mind,” starts the Ignoramus on a failing note, “If I was to get a dooorm, I would get a single.” He has yet to rise above the physical place. I notice that his fly is open as he stands. The Ignoramus wears pink shoes.

There’s a surprising amount of cooperation as everyone files out accordingly. The Ruminator remains seated, applying Chap Stick.

But now I’ve gone too far, naming my characters.

8:34 A.M.