Strangers On A Train

Chasing

African, pink striped dress shirt, dressy jeans, oxford shoes

Atsu sighed. This was his third visit to the Brooklyn immigration office. Why won’t they understand? He reconsidered all those English classes in University of Nairobi. American dream? As if.

“My uncle’s friend promised me a job as a stock trader. He disappeared and now I’m working at night as a janitor.”

From behind the plexiglass window, she had a commandeering presence.
“Look sir, I know that you have issues. We all have issues. I’m just following the rules. You gotta get your papers sorted out by the end of the month or you will be deported.”

“But I working”, he cried.

“Sorry”, she muttered, wiping her eyes.  “Next!”

“So what do I do now?”

“I already told you. Go to room 303 and ask for a new I-35 form. Then fill in ‘new occupation’ as custodian. Come back to me after you’re done”.

He angrily stormed out. Sick of the endless runaround, he ran down the stairs, chasing a train. 

Alex and I

”Hello, this is Alex, the one man band. Have a blessed day.”

Oh god, now what? I think to myself. After a sleepless night, I’m on my way to my weekly emotional masturbation that is therapy. Tired, pissed off, edgy, you name it. Now this old man. What does he want from me?

He’s an odd curiosity, with his fading black fedora complete with feather.  Images of Romanian gypsies come to mind. I’m half expecting a monkey with cymbals to pop out his bag.

Then he starts his shpiel.

“Hello, this is Alex, the one man band. Have a blessed day.”
On a portable mic, no less. As if the shitty day can’t get any worse. It was a cold rainy day. Good luck making any money, bro.

After some fumbling, he pushes a button on the portable speaker. An upright jazz tempo starts blaring. He pauses, takes a deep breath, and starts playing his trumpet. That’s crossing the line. He went from minor nuisance to full blown pain in the ass. SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!

The music gets louder as he approaches my seat in the train car. My headache escalates as well. Louder and louder. Louder and Louder. As he neared me, I controlled every impulse to tackle him head on, football style. Shut up! Shut the hell up!

He passed. I survived. Sigh of relief. As the music started fading, I looked over at Alex. He’s no longer my problem, I thought. Poor bastards at the end of the train. Enjoy him, suckers! I yell at the people he’s approaching.

Suddenly, the train screeches at a bend in the tunnel. Alex stumbles, and falls back a step. My anger turns to anxiety. Is he okay? He’s no longer the money-grubbing, loud, obnoxious gypsy. The image fades as we pull into Jay Street. What’s left is an old man, struggling to make a living. Floundering, drowning. Someone who puts himself out there every few minutes. Displays himself on life’s stage. Vulnerable to the harsh heckles of strangers.

The train’s changing  speed forces him a step back. It’s as if life’s crossing guard is telling him “STOP”. For every step forward, he falls two back.

As the train leaves the station, I look over at Alex, once again onstage in the next car. Rendering himself vulnerable to new uncertainties. From the window in my car, I see him through a reflection of myself. We’re not that different, Alex and I.

Persian Woman, Sunday.

Location: Manhattan bound F train, Sunday. Boarded Church Ave Station.

Person: Persian woman, loose trench coat, tights, black flats, clutching tightly to business suitcase. High, Eastern European cheekbones, scary eyes, awkward temperament.

She held her bag tightly. In it, lied her future. Her future riches did nothing to calm her. If anything, it made her more anxious. The months events kept playing over in her head, on a constant loop.

Beep. beep. beep. The noise in the hospital bed did nothing to keep her company. Her mother lied quietly in the hospital bed, sleeping. Although she was sick for a while, Indira could not accept that her mother would die. She overcame so many challenges that death should be a cakewalk. It took the urging of her siblings and her husband to do the thing she has avoided until now. That four letter word that was on her mind from dawn till dusk: will. Finally, Bijan, her husband, sat her down and had a long talk with her. “Mother is very sick”, he said softly, as Indira folded in his arms, crying. “It is imperative we get her affairs in order”.

“She’s fine!”

“Dear, I know it’s hard for you to accept, but we must accept the situation for what it is.”

The discussion turned to yelling, going back to the early days of their marriage. Twenty minutes later, it reached a breaking point.

“What should I do?” She yelped.

“You must bring her the document and fill it out with her”.

The D-word. They were afraid to utter the term will in the house, with all its implications. So they settled on calling it the document. There was a certain coldness to the name that offered the family reprieve from the reality of the situation.

She gave up. After all, what was she fighting for? That her mother would live forever? With a sigh, she took the blank will of the night table and put it in her attache case.

By a stroke of luck, her lawyer, Mel Borenstein called a few minutes later. Her visa was about to expire and he needed her signature. They made up to meet at the hospital the next day, to work out her mother’s last will and testament.

Here she was, on her way to Methodist Hospital, to finally accept her mother’s fate. As she walked up seventh avenue, she noticed all the young mothers with their carriages. She had a flashback of her own childhood, in Meshad. It was a warm summer’s day and her mother took her swimming at the community pool. “Look at me! Look at me!” she cried, splashing the water.

“I see you”, her mother said warmly. They embraced in the pool, their wet bodies warming each other.


Those days are now over.