[What follows is a short story I've been working on this week. I had hoped to publish it on the writing page of the main website, but because of a computer crash the programs necessary to make that happen—and, yes, there are several—are not longer available on my computer. As soon as I get the necessary software loaded onto my new computer, I'll probably move the page.
This story is an experiment in form and style. I do that occassionally, and this one worked better than most. Which is why I put it here.]
Long Distances
1
I never saw her eyes.
2
Late for the train, I jog towards open doors on work-weary feet, fumbling with my commuter pass while trying not to drop my briefcase. Panting, I grab the metal railing and pull myself up onto the car even as the electric bell warns that the doors are closing. The car is hot and crowded, full of dead-eyed college students wearing backpacks and headphones and long-haired old men that stare openly at bare-legged young women. Of course, there are no seats.
I grab a strap, jerking a bit as the train pulls forward. Behind me, two guys debate dropping a class, their voices loud and violent. A woman stands next to me, her heavy body banging mine every time the train rocks. I rest my briefcase on the floor between my feet and wait for an empty seat.
3
At the next stop, one person, a guy with black plastic glasses and baby blue cd player, slips off even as four more climb aboard. I shake my head and hope for better odds at the next stop.
4
She sits alone on the end of a bench seat, her back pressed against the window. If I wanted, I could reach out my hand and caress her single red braid. Tight black sunglasses wrap around her face and a backpack rests on her lap. A thin black cell phone hangs by the side of her face, but that face does not move, not even her pink mouth.
I glance away, watching a gray apartment complex pass the window. A plastic sign tied to the front of the building offers free cable and a pass on the second month’s rent.
Glancing back, I see she still hasn’t moved. The arm has not adjusted. The bag is in its place. The face and lips are motionless.
I cannot see her eyes.
It’s a shield, then, I think as I look away again. Something to keep the old guys afraid and the young guys honest. She’s not beautiful, but cute and on the train cute is just as dangerous as beautiful any day. Maybe more so. Smart idea that, holding a cell phone to your ear and disappearing into your own world.
Then I see movement. She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and chews on it.
Now her free hand moves, up to her face, rubbing her jaw like she has a toothache. This is also a shield, for behind her fingers, she talks into the phone.
5
The next stop is better, but still not perfect. Four off and two on. A seat frees up near the front of the car, but I don’t move.
She talks softly, pink lips moving behind pale fingers, the bag clutched on her lap. Words drift towards me. “My position.” “Away again.” “Your Mom and I.”
I grip the strap tighter. Hang on, another stop coming up.
6
This stop is a transfer and the car thins out. I step forward and sit down, close to her and next to another student, a wide-eyed girl who glances up from her textbook to give me one very tight smile. Now I’m close, close enough for our legs to touch. I stare straight ahead, watching the names of stops flow across an electronic marquee at the front of the car, watching as the shadows of poles and buildings flash across the plastic seats, and watching her sit like a motionless Buddha in jeans and black t-shirt. She still talks into hand, but now I can hear most of the words.
I lean back and sigh, another tired commuter waiting to get home, watching shadows and light dance across the floor along the way.
7
“I understand your position. I understood it last summer. This is an important opportunity for you. Okay, I get it. But why can’t you come here for the weekend? Just the weekend. Your Mom and I, we’ll come get you and take you back on Sunday.”
A pause.
“I can’t come there. School started this week. Please, just try and understand my position. I have classes and homework. I can’t just run up every weekend like I did last summer. You know? Can’t you think about my position?”
Another pause.
“No, it isn’t fair. But not like you say. If this is the way it is, then I won’t get to see you until next May.” A brief pause while she sucked in air; the rough whistle is clear and audible. “I do want to see you, but I can’t come there. Not now.”
8
The train turns slowly; the next stop is mine. But I don’t move. Everything is in engulfed in shadow, as the train slides into a canyon of tall buildings. People move toward the exits, others get on. Some kid laughs wildly and calls out, “Go down four blocks. It’s four blocks. Just go!” Someone bumps me and I sway like a stalk of wheat.
9
“No, I don’t understand. You said this wasn’t your busy time. If you won’t come here now, then when? I know you won’t come during the busy time. No, you won’t.”
The words stop, then start again quickly.
“Stop it. I am not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m really trying to understand. No, I don’t think you are. I can’t leave now. Not again.” She says something else, but I cannot hear the words because we’ve pulled into the next stop.
10
The girl next to me stands quickly, closing her book with soft slap, and moves around me to get out. I swivel to let her pass, then swivel back in place, a human gate. I’m seven blocks away from my regular stop; by the next stop, I’ll be almost sixteen away. Then, I’ll have to wait and ride a train back. Maybe I should just get off here.
The electric bell sounds and the doors close with a shudder.
11
“No, I can’t do it.”
12
The train rocks back and forth, windows lit with the setting sun. I’m tired and depressed. The words have stopped completely. If I had just boarded the train and sat down in this seat, next to this Buddha in a t-shirt and jeans, close enough to caress her single red braid, I might think it was a smart idea to hold a dead cell phone to your ear and disappear into a world of your own.
Yes, I might think just that until I noticed the wet lines on her face.
13
She stays on for two more stops. This train rolls on and on, an exercise in eternity. Shortly before her stop, I hear the words, “I’ll call you on Friday.” Today is Tuesday which means the time between now and Friday will be measured in eons. The phone never moves from the side of her face, not even when she stands up and walks off the train.
14
I never saw her eyes.