People flow through my veins like
unstoppable rivers, like tendered addictions stream through me, rush by me,
take pieces of me as they come and go. An unstoppable deluge of unknowns,
continue to care, can’t help myself; we get by with a little help from our
friends. We want to try to change the inevitable course of romance, like a
lifetime dance, we live in a trance.
There are no answers, only
questions or issues to resolve. Now-a-days problems are called issues. Don’t
ask me why. Like a problem is something demeaning you can’t be absolved of, but
an issue evolve and dissolve. Life is
artificial. We play musical chairs, turning in place, exchanging our issues
while we struggle to exist.
Haven’t given up hope that love
will save me, transport me somewhere; the base overcomes me. I cry, tears run,
no tissues. A constant observer, I long for magic, tender kisses, want my
wishes materialized, want pain to disappear. Life is ethereal, all problems
remedial, but life is too short to let anger stand in the way or miss life
while we text our lives away, forgetting true connections. People we see
everyday right next to us are ignored while we stay glued to iPhones and iPads.
I want pain to disappear, issues to
be clear, want to get my ass in gear and leave behind the fear that drives me.
The consumerism blues take hold and a shopping mood strikes me. Eyes veiled, I
only see what’s before me and I want to go where I can buy things.
I get on the train today and am
terrified. Tall Blond White Lady turns to me, stares in my eyes. “Don’t push!” She screams in my face.
For some reason this makes me recall a former lover who said it was nice to be crushed
in a massive moving throng of people.
“I don’t want to push, but I am
being pushed from behind,” I reply, the important unspoken words being, I’m as
much victim as you are. “Anyway,” I say against her, “wouldn’t you rather me
shoved against you than some slime guy?” I notice her ASPCA T-shirt. “It’s nice
you help animals. I love animals too,” I say.
“I love my job!” she replies
emphatically. Our hearts touch for a millisecond of time.
“I have poor balance though I know,
there’s not much room to fall down. There’s no place to hold on to. Can I hold
on to you or your coat if you prefer?”
“OK she agrees.” I hate rush hour
with passion. If she hadn’t been sweet she may have attacked me. It happened
before. It was a snowstorm in 2007 and I was on my way to work at 8:15. The
train was gray slippery slush, ankle high. My stop is last one outdoors. I am
trying my best to hold on to the hanging hooks, lucky in far enough to grab it.
The train is crowded. I have a bag filled with papers on my shoulders, long
coat and boots, definitely encumbered. Being short works against me, the hooks
are up high. I hold on tight. The train lurches continuously, each stop and start,
plus people get off and on each stop. I slip each time so hold on for dear life
with two hands holding that one metal strap. The straps are designed to be mobile so they
rock forward and back at each stop and start.
Nice old Latina lady never says a
word as my knees brush hers. Doesn’t totally acknowledge my apology.
Ms. Latina Meany yells, “What the
fuck? Why are you all over this woman?” The lady next to her is an elderly
Latina women. At each sudden lurch my knees brush hers.
“I can’t control it. I try my best.
I excuse myself a dozen times to her.”
“Girl you better not touch her
again. I’m warning you…”
“People are pushing me from behind.
I can’t stop my knees bending forward.” Everyone watching the show, I clam up.
Ms. Latina Meany stands up and lunges for me. The train lurches. I fall
momentarily to the side. Standing Ms. Latina Meany misses me momentarily, but
jabs her finger into my belly. I see my demise. “Please,” I beg, “I didn’t do
anything.” Ms. Meany pokes me again.
“What the hell? Monday morning …
Com’on! It is too early for this shit.” Mr. Handsome Asian guy, jumps in from
nowhere, grabs her hand as she’s about to punch me in the face. I take note.
Hey, he’s not much bigger than I – dressed with a lot of style, in suit, tie, cashmere
topcoat and rubbers. Stranger looks me
in the eye. “Getting off here?” The train is almost in the 59th
Street Station. I nod. Mr. Asian grabs Ms. Meany from behind, restraining her
by holding his arms tightly around her, her arms held tight to her sides. She
jumped up against him, trying to kick him and free herself, but he held her
down. Mr. Handsome Savior Guy yelled, “Just go, … don’t look back, go. I walked;
half assed ran on that slippery floor without falling.
Ms. Meany yelled, “Let me get th’
bitch! Let me at ‘er. Shit!” Her voice faded as the train pulled out, Mr.
Savior still holding her. I remain terrified, forget scared. Scared shitless.
Ever since that time, I’ve been gun shy. You understand why. No need to
explain. Help me, I beg!
I’m afraid every time I board the
train. Keep my eyes down, bury myself, read a story, and most of all, evade eye
contact. You never know who will attack. It’s a scary world. I force myself out
the door daily. I maintain hope in humanity. Probably I won’t get attacked
again, or if I do someone will save me. Take me to the boondocks and let me
live with you for a while, whoever you are.
I take trains. I get panic attacks
near train tracks. I call my car the escape machine. Can you blame me?
