Commute

The rhythmic clickity-clack of the tracks was starting to lull me to sleep. I catch my head from falling too far back and touching the back of my seat. I sit up with a start and clear my throat. Who knows who touched this seat before me. Picture the most disgusting human you can - the kind of person you’d cross the street to avoid passing on the sidewalk, that’s who sat in this seat before me. At least that’s what I imagine anyway.

A man looks at me and averts his eyes as I look back, avoiding eye contact and adjusting his gaze to the speckled floor pattern. The floor is scuffed and scratched and seems to have a permanent film of filth across its surface. Areas of dried moisture combined with sidewalk salt have left whitish rings scattered across it's surface. He shuffles his untied Timberland boots scuffing one of the rings, breaking its bond. Fuck him. For a moment the car loses connection with the electricity of the tracks and I lose sight of the sneaky bastard as the lights flicker. Do the engines lose power when this happens? Does the train coast at that point, yearning to reconnect with its energy source? I don’t think so, does the train even have an engine? I think it has to right? Does the electricity come from the tracks or from the engine car? I think one of the cables between the cars provides the electricity for the passenger cars. Maybe the connection’s coming loose. Maybe the train is going to de-couple and leave our car stranded, alone on the tracks waiting to be plowed into by some other crazy careless conductor.

As illumination returns he pops into view, untied shoes and all. If he’s not careful when he exits those laces could get caught in the train doors as they shut. How tight do they seal? Would their force pull his feet out from under him and drag him along? Or would his boot simply fall off and go clattering off, a new semi-permanent decoration for the side of the train car. Would it survive its wild ride until the doors released at the next stop? Would it thwap in the wind repeatedly slapping the side of the car like some overgrown jokester slapping his knee. Wouldn't that be funny. I sigh. Why doesn’t he sit instead of standing and holding the bar near the door? Maybe he knows something about these seats that I don’t. Maybe he saw that disgusting passenger perched upon them, sprawled out in all their disgusting glory. The man looks to be about forty, Hispanic and tired. His clothes look old and well-worn. He’s probably been wearing them for years. His thick jacket is frayed at the edges through use and friction. It’s had a hard life. The knees of his pants are worn, one showing a little bit of thread, no doubt used to seal a rapidly expanding hole. I bet if he were to drop dead right this moment, his clothes could get up and continue on his journey, picking up his routine where he left off. Would his family realize he wasn't present in them? Or would 'hollow dad' be enough to satisfy? His face is almost as worn as his clothes, small lines cross it giving it the look of old worn in leather. The start of wrinkles. How old is he?
I’ll call him Juan.