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Public Transportation
by Scott Thompson The group of boys descend the stairs two at a time. Their laughter dies on the muted cement walls of the underground station. As they reach the platform, Kris looks up and down the platform and spits onto the tracks, “How long till the bloody train comes then?” The boy next to him impulsively runs his fingers along a silver chain extending from his vest to his pants pocket. The chain is connected to a phone whose screen reveals an image of an old pocket watch, gleaming gold from its rounded edges. It makes a quiet ticking sound as the second hand progresses in its endless circle. “Just a few minutes,” the boy answers. Kris digs into his jacket for his pack, “Enough time for a smoke, for sure.” He lights a match, inhales, and blows smoke in the direction of a man in jeans and a light blue button-up standing next to him. The man glares back at Kris and, after noticing Kris’ military boots and the four other youths smirking over Kris’ shoulder, moves further down the platform. “That’s right,” Kris sneers at the man’s retreating back, “walk away.” A squeal through the tunnel announces the arrival of the train. The boys load into the car putting their feet up on the seats across from them. Bits of dirt and caked mud scatter over the frayed upholstery. A few passengers are riding with them: a young couple chatting a few seats ahead, a younger man reading a newspaper a few seats behind, and an older business man in an expensive suit at the front of the car. The boys start their usual banter: the girls at school whose dresses and tempers ran short and their recent scraps. As they grow more comfortable, their voices and laughter grow louder. The young couple quickly chooses a different part of the car. The train rolls out of the station and into the tunnel. After accelerating to a steady pace, lights from the tunnel illuminate the interior with a steady rhythm. The shadows from the tunnel lights play across the aluminum walls, bathing the passengers in succeeding moments of light and dark. The train car and its passengers become, for a moment, actors in a timeworn movie whose reels do not turn quick enough to hide the cuts between shots. All boundaries are visible. At the next station, the young couple and the younger man get off. After several minutes, the escalating need for another cigarette prompts Kris to create a new form of entertainment for the group. He lifts himself into the aisle and slides into the seat just behind the lone business man. In a tone anticipating no answer, Kris questions, “Say, watcha keep in your briefcase, old-timer?” The man does not respond. Kris turns towards his watchful friends who are trying to keep themselves from laughing. A group member, breaking the silence, shouts, “Is he ignoring you, Kris? You going to let him hack you off like that?” The boys chuckle. Kris looks back at the older man and sends a sharp kick to the back of his seat. “Don’t ignore me, old man! I asked you a question.” Again, the man remains still and noiseless. Kris can hear his friends’ laughter swelling. Encouraged by the group’s cackle, he gets up and quickly moves to the seat facing the man. Stooping down, Kris exclaims, “Hey, you old sod, I asked you a…” Getting a look at the man’s shaded appearance, Kris pauses. The business suit—which had looked nice in the dissonant flashes of light and dark—is tattered, frayed at the collar and elbows. It hulks over the man’s thin shoulders with its buttons either missing or hanging slack. The man’s tie is tense, knotted clumsily around his neck, wringing his throat. The shadows swim across the car as the train continues its forward progress, bumping occasionally against the tracks. The movie reels shutter on the projector, gaining momentum. The man sinks forward out of the shadows, revealing his face. His sudden movement startles Kris and quiets his friends. The man grins, openly peering into Kris’s eyes. His toothy smile stretches across his face, pulling tight the skin around his collar. His teeth are pitted, black, and misshapen. The man slowly brings a finger to his lips. In a motion of silent anticipation, his other hand moves to his ear, cupped, as if attempting to capture a faint melody. Large explosions in the distance rattle the tunnel walls. The lights on the train flicker erratically, and the train jars forward, increasing its speed with a sudden jolt. The end of the film strip slaps against the projector repeatedly as the reel continues its dumb rotation. It makes the sound of a quiet ticking. The train rushes forward. |
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