Riding the Soul-less Train
Taking the subway in any city, I imagine, is more or less how it feels to take it in NYC but not as bad. There I am, again in the morning before it even hit 7:30 along with all the other insufferables and untouchables. There I was with them. I gave my body a jiggle. Felt a little bit of rocket juice within me. I had to use it wisely otherwise I’ll be stuck here for the next 10 years and not know it. Hotel California will be my theme music and my life a sitcom. How easy is it to get stuck taking this dread of a train every single day back and forth? Almost as easy as it is painful to endure it.
How dreadfully torturous it is to go through something like this. I did it for school for more than 12 years, but that wasn’t as bad because a lot of the time you’d be with friends cracking jokes or asleep. I remember one time the train was really crowded and I had an open container of halal chicken and lamb over rice drizzled in white and hot sauce. I had my friends with me and my best friend’s girlfriend, call her Julie, was sitting in front and a little to the left of me as I was standing. Left hand holding up my tray the right holding the bar above me. The train bobbed and swerved down the tunnels but occasionally it would go straight and gently. I had time to let go of the bar and pick up my fork. I would grab a forkful of meat with rice and scarf it down until the trains would become violent again. I’d drop my fork in the tray and grab the bar again. But one moment of peace and silent moving, the train seemed to have stopped rather suddenly, more sudden than what we New Yorkers are used to. Bunch of people stumbled, catching themselves, and I, with my fork in my hand, within a span of half a second (as it felt like in this moment the train’s light went out and everything went dark) dropped half of my rice and chicken and lamb glazed with white and hot sauce directly on the man sitting in front of me. I still remember Julie’s laugh. It was one of those giggle laughs that you can tell are hysterical and there’s no chance of holding back. Poor guy looked miserable before I got to him, had to take the dreadful train along side us loud high schoolers. And here he is getting showered with highly concentrated PUFAs filled with grease and sauce and delicious smells sticking to his fabrics. I apologized profusely, taking out the few napkins in my bag. I started to wipe the rice and meats off his coat. I vividly remember Julie laughing even harder at this.
My face must’ve been crimson painted, not because of any repercussions I may have faced from this man but because I was raised very well-mannered and this was beyond uncouth. But every time I think of this story, I can’t prevent my soft chuckles turning into thunderous laughter. What a good memory in a shitmobile of a train. I wish I got to see a high schooler spilling his food over an unexpecting bystander, bonus points for him looking like he’s about to end it all prior.
Most people are soulless. They lack ambition but worse than that (as I can understand why many may not want to become the best at something or be a multimillionaire or swoop hot chicks on weekends or become a multifaceted individual like your humble author) was that they’ve given up on living.
This is the life I must live. Wake up early. Groggy. Get dressed. Get on a packed bus to the packed train. 30-40 minutes of this nonsense. Random stops, traffic, loud talking coming out of ugly as fuck faces. Get to work to a job that pays the bills but is so plain and mundane I’d rather a shooter come in and threaten to shoot up the office for a tinge of excitement. He never comes though. I clock out and go back home on the more crowded and even louder train.