Waiting for the station for the train to come. It's St. Patrick's Day and the war starts in less than two days, but no one seems to mind. They're too busy dancing on the sidewalk and singing along to "Come On Eileen."
As I walk up the steps to the platform the only other person waiting for a train, a young man in a grey hooded sweatshirt, asks me for a cigarette. I don't smoke, so I have to disappoint him. He says nothing, but he looks over his shoulder as I walk past to see how far away from him I position myself. I'm still within talking distance.
He starts fiddling with the customer service button, flicking it and dinging it until he accidentally presses it. An automated voice announces, "Customer Service is needed on the inbound platform." It's a female voice, and I imagine she is the sister or girlfriend of the male voice that announces the stops on the train. I like the stop at Chicago Street, because The Voice announces, "This Is Chicago." That's the only place I like The Voice--everywhere else I distrust it for some reason.
I look up as he steps away from the silver button. He says, "What the hell's that about?" and laughs, not realizing I watched him press it. I shrug my shoulders and say nothing.
Another voice, a human voice, intones over the intercom: "If you need something I'm down at the kiosk."
I look to the man again and he says, "I could use a good headjob, but that's about it." I laugh and this encourages him to ask, "You know any decent looking ho's around here?" I tell him I don't, and he says I must not be from around here. I tell him I am, I just don't know any ho's. Somehow this reminds him that, "Man, the only think I don't like about living up north is it's queerville."
He seems genuinely put out, but all I can do shrugh once again and offer, "Different strokes for different folks." He doesn't respond, and when the train comes he boards a different car than me.
On my walk home later that night I see a rabbit honest-to-god hopping down the sidewalk. I grew up in the country, not on a farm, but surrounded by them, and I used to see rabbits all of the time. But I've been living in cities for six years and I can't remember the last time I saw one. I've seen rats, a few squirrels, and sometimes a cat, but this is my first rabbit. He's made it through the worst of the winter already, but somehow I think the summer will be more dangerous for him. I hope he does okay.
As I walk up the steps to the platform the only other person waiting for a train, a young man in a grey hooded sweatshirt, asks me for a cigarette. I don't smoke, so I have to disappoint him. He says nothing, but he looks over his shoulder as I walk past to see how far away from him I position myself. I'm still within talking distance.
He starts fiddling with the customer service button, flicking it and dinging it until he accidentally presses it. An automated voice announces, "Customer Service is needed on the inbound platform." It's a female voice, and I imagine she is the sister or girlfriend of the male voice that announces the stops on the train. I like the stop at Chicago Street, because The Voice announces, "This Is Chicago." That's the only place I like The Voice--everywhere else I distrust it for some reason.
I look up as he steps away from the silver button. He says, "What the hell's that about?" and laughs, not realizing I watched him press it. I shrug my shoulders and say nothing.
Another voice, a human voice, intones over the intercom: "If you need something I'm down at the kiosk."
I look to the man again and he says, "I could use a good headjob, but that's about it." I laugh and this encourages him to ask, "You know any decent looking ho's around here?" I tell him I don't, and he says I must not be from around here. I tell him I am, I just don't know any ho's. Somehow this reminds him that, "Man, the only think I don't like about living up north is it's queerville."
He seems genuinely put out, but all I can do shrugh once again and offer, "Different strokes for different folks." He doesn't respond, and when the train comes he boards a different car than me.
On my walk home later that night I see a rabbit honest-to-god hopping down the sidewalk. I grew up in the country, not on a farm, but surrounded by them, and I used to see rabbits all of the time. But I've been living in cities for six years and I can't remember the last time I saw one. I've seen rats, a few squirrels, and sometimes a cat, but this is my first rabbit. He's made it through the worst of the winter already, but somehow I think the summer will be more dangerous for him. I hope he does okay.
cobalt:
Really liked your entry today - oddly enough, I thought it would make a very good script for a short comic story. Reminded me of Harvey Pekar's work. Some moments of genuine oddness and humor, and an almost philosphical and lyrical last paragraph. I don't think it will be long before you get some other characters checking out your journal...
flick:
I love your writing.... it's all fiction the morning after isn't it?