[I've been creatively lazy (creatazy?) lately, thus, here is another old story I wrote about a year ago that I kind of forgot about but believe it has its merits. Also gonna re-work on "Sporadic Flashbacks" and make it into something better and amazing. Stay tuned, folks.]
It was past midnight on the metro when he sat directly behind me, on the seat attached to mine. Technically, it wasn’t my seat; it didn’t belong to me, but it was the seat I was temporarily making use of, while on my night ride on the metro. I was instantly aware of his presence with out even seeing him; he gave off a stench of alcohol, cigarettes and Vicks cough drops. I stared at the reflection of him to my right in the train’s large window. He had long and greasy silver grey hair in a ponytail, and wore a pair of shining women’s earrings. Looking closer at his reflection, I noticed the undeniable use of eye liner, outlining and sharpening the look of his eyes.
The old man slept.
I had just watched Charlie Kaufman’s new movie, Synecdoche, New York, and I was thinking about the false purpose created by ourselves in our lives. How the failure of one’s self is directly in our own hands. And so is the ability to change.
That’s why I cringe when I see the people who need to be hand fed and cared for. Tax payers money, tax payers money, tax payers money. That’s why I think that sometimes instead of begging for money on the street, these people should get a job.
That’s what I think.
I sit on the metro and this man’s stench begins to get to my stomach as the train zooms through underground tunnels at light speed. I am full from the three course supper I just ate with a few associates of mine before going to see the movie with my girlfriend. My stomach bulges, but the smell of the man causes it displeasure.
I decide to move.
I stand up and get out of my spot, sitting a little bit further away. The old man stands up too, and heads towards the sliding doors, prepared to open at the stop. He wobbles on his two feet and almost loses his balance. I stare with the dirtiest looks. He makes me sick. It’s midnight and this man can barely stand, his 40 ounce bottle sticks out from his dirty plaid jacket, resting in a paper bag.
The man stares at me as the metro begins to come to a halt. His shiny women’s earrings glow and his eye liner accentuates the sick glaze he has in his eyes. This man is pathetic and is everything vile about the city life.
And he doesn’t stop staring at me.
I turn my head away, and look at him in the reflection of the window. He looks at me up and down, looking at my blue silk tie and long black jacket. The doors open and before he leaves, he speaks, voice like sandpaper.
“Hey, fuck you man. Get a job.”
And with that, he stumbles out of the cart.
2 comments:
Yeah, I feel you on the lazy. I've been fossilized in the CREATAZIOUS PERIOD!
Ok I'm done with the corny jokes.
I must admit, I was so-so about this until I got to the very end, when the old man turned around and said, "Hey, fuck you man. Get a job.” The first paragraph started well, with concrete images and interesting details (I really like the woman's earrings). But once the narrator started talking about tax payer's money, it felt like this guy was just ranting and complaining without anything to really back up what he's saying (as in personal experiences to justify it, or at least some sassy-but-insightful comments).
Once I got to the word "associates," though, it started to come together. Just that one word brought in so many connotations (coughbusinessdouchecough), and then the ending was just perfect. The narrator's character is revealed, the drunk guy gets the last word, and this piece suddenly becomes awesome. Even though I didn't like it at first, now I realize that it's actually because you intentionally portrayed him that way, and I was just reacting naturally because I usually can't stand that sort of guy.
Thumbs up.
I pretty much agree with what Andrea just said, because she is made of awesome.
One of the things I like the most about this story is that the narrator can't look at the drunk old man directly, he always has to stare at his reflection. I think it's the most revealing thing about his character: his cowardice, his inability to look look at things directly, to always warp reality into something that fits his agenda. The narrator is profoundly repulsed by his metro-mate, but he can't stop staring at him in the window. Interesting social commentary!
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