|
MacMurphy
Publishing
|
|
Cattle Car
|
|
|
|
|
|
Mickey
MacMurphy
|
|
10/3/2013
|
|
Word
Count: Approximately 2,700
|
Cattle
Car: (Nov 13th/03)
Another day, another fifty cents after taxes. That’s what I
was thinking to myself the first time I saw him. Of course, at that time, he
was just another face, just another person waiting for the train to arrive, to
ferry us to our destinations, jobs and offices. It was a chilly, January
morning and, as I stood and shivered on the train platform, the wind seemed
determined to rob what little heat I possessed. I shrank into my parka,
watching him whistling cheerfully, greeting people who passed close, and found
myself vaguely annoyed. Anyone this cheerful, this early in the morning, must,
by definition, be crazy.
Shortly, but not soon enough, the train pulled up and I
joined the crowd in jostling and pushing my way aboard. I wasn’t lucky today; I
was stuck where I’d have to get off at every stop to let someone off, stuck
between the door and a massively fat lady. Was this the modern equivalent of
being stuck between a rock and a hard place? I didn’t know and wasn’t awake
enough to care.
The
man I’d noticed who seemed so cheerful, was standing nearby, wedged between a
cold plastic railing and the teeming masses of humanity. He caught my eye and
then winked and smiled. I looked away, shuffling my feet somewhat
uncomfortably. What, was he gay or something? No one made eye contact on the
crowded train, at least not deliberately. Instead, they buried their noses in
books, magazines, newspapers. Instead, they gazed out the window at industrial
wasteland, some even bringing pillows to catch those precious few moments of
extra sleep.
At
every stop, as I let someone out and forced my way back aboard, I cursed my bad
luck. My car had pretty much gone completely wonky and to fix it was far beyond
my meager price range. So I was stuck riding the crowded, uncomfortable train
until I could save up enough money. With a sigh, I pushed my way farther into
the train, ending up several people, but only a few feet, away from the
whistler.
I
studied him intently, wondering why he could be so upbeat before the sun had
even risen. He looked to be in his early thirties, wearing expensively
conservative business attire with a strangely out of place brightly
multicolored toque with a giant orange pom on top. He was clean-shaven,
probably a few inches taller than my six foot, guessing a fit 200 pounds or so.
One of those men women gravitated towards. I wondered what was with the crazy
toque, and was surprised to find it annoyed me, in a highly irrational sort of
way.
Before
I could muse any further, the little chime sounded and my stop was announced.
Pushing my way off, I felt relief that at least part of my daily ordeal was
over. As the train pulled away, I looked over to find him watching me, with a
completely neutral look that inexplicably creeped me out. With a shrug, I
dismissed it and walked the few short blocks to the construction site I was
currently working at. Of course, I cursed the brutal, shrieking wind the whole
way.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * *
I
didn’t see him again for several weeks, perhaps a month. I recognized him
partially from his whistling, this time recognizable as a 60’s song whose name
I’ve forgotten, and the same garish toque. He was waiting on the platform,
smiling and nodding good morning to cold, half-awake people as they passed.
Some people smiled halfheartedly back, while others grunted and kept going, but
most just ignored him completely.
I watched him for most of the ride to work, my overactive
imagination in full speculation mode. I found myself wondering what he was
like, where he worked, and what his life must be like that he appeared so happy.
Of course, this was just idle speculation; there was no way I cared enough to
ask. This time, he didn’t appear to notice me. This, I mused, was probably a
good thing.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * *
Again, I didn’t see him for a couple weeks, but this time
when I did, his toque was gone, revealing brown hair just beginning to thin.
This time, he wasn’t whistling, although still greeting people with a hearty
good morning. This was odd enough in the big city, for most people just didn’t seem
overly friendly, especially on cold winter mornings. The guy must be crazy or
something. By now my idle curiosity was raging; he must have a super good job
with high pay, a super hot wife who gave him head whenever he wanted, a nice
country club membership, and so on. How amusing, I thought as I forced my way
off at my stop. Lucky bastard.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * *
This time when I saw him, it was only a week or so since
the previous sighting. I wondered why I was seeing him more frequently. This
particular day, I really couldn’t have cared less, suffering through the
aftereffects of a night out hard partying. As I stood there wondering if I
should just call in sick, I noticed he had a new toque, this one a rather drab
gray and beat up.
I also noticed, through the haze of the hangover, that he
didn’t look quite so chipper. Perhaps if I hadn’t been feeling so rough, I
might have been surprised, concerned even. But not today. Just before the train
pulled in, I made the decision that I wasn’t going to work and used a nearby
payphone to beg off with flu.
As the train came to a stop, I passed him on my way to the
exit and he tentatively mumbled good morning. I nodded back and kept going,
watching him over my shoulder as he shuffled on the train. To my surprise, I
found myself feeling somewhat sorry for him. He looked rather dejected,
something I picked up even through the haze of my hangover.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
A few days later, it was quite pleasant out, unseasonably
warm. I was in a great mood, even given the packed sardine can of a train I
faced. I’d also nearly saved enough to be able to fix my car, something which
greatly contributed to my peachie mood. So I was standing on the platform with
a fool grin on my face, when he shuffled by.
I say shuffled because it wasn’t the stride of a man who
counted pride or happiness among his friends and allies. Indeed, I nearly
failed to recognize him. Looking closer at what I’d mistaken for one of the
broken down bums who dig in garbage cans around here, I realized it was the
whistler.
He trudged, apparently aimlessly, up and down the platform,
looking dejectedly down at the ground. His classy, expensive business attire
was gone, replaced by old, worn army pants and a dirty, ragged winter jacket
that had definitely seen better centuries. It was so dirty and stained, I
wondered if it had been retrieved from the dumpster. Everything in his posture,
the look on his face, it all screamed that he had been chewed up and broken.
The whole while, he seemed to be mumbling to himself under
his breath. I found myself wondering if he was ok, but after a moment’s heated
internal debate, I decided it really wasn’t any of my business. Who was I, a
complete stranger, to interfere in this guy’s life? This kind of made me feel
guilty, but I shrugged it off. After all, I had my own life and my own concerns
to worry about.
As I forced my way onto the train, dodging elbows,
insisting on a place, I noticed that he too had boarded. I watched the people
around him give him a surprising amount of space, as if he were somehow
contagious. As if the bum they perceived would somehow infect them with cooties
that would make them just like him. Thus, people crowded each other, packed
themselves in more tightly, enduring much greater discomfort just to avoid
being near him.
To an extent, this horrified me. This man needed help,
needed our compassion. But again, I shrugged this idea of responsibility off.
It really wasn’t any of my business, something I kept repeating to myself like
some absurd mantra. I needed to get my car fixed, I had a busy social life to
consider, forms to fill out for my next courses at the trade school. I didn’t
have time to help someone who obviously wouldn’t help themselves. So I kept
silent, yet couldn’t prevent myself from watching him.
He seemed to be still talking to himself. The people around
him would occasionally cast furtive glances in his direction, as if to assure
themselves he was keeping his distance. Then they would look around, catch
someone’s eye and share a secret grin, as if to say I’m glad I’m not him. I’m
glad I’m not crazy, like him. He didn’t seem to notice, staring blankly at the
chill, bleak landscape as it rushed by.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The next time I saw him, turned out to be the last. He
looked even worse, his once clear eyes now bloodshot, windows into a tormented
soul. He was dressed the same, but his clothes were much more worn, much
dirtier. There were several small holes and tears in his army pants, as well as
several various colored stains. His jacket, threadbare and grungy already, was
even worse now, grey-white insulation hanging like torn tendons from under one
arm. On his head perched one of those old hats with the fold down ear flaps. It
was so dirty and frayed that I couldn’t really tell what its original color had
been. He was standing by the platform exit, and every few minutes he would
suddenly violently twitch, like a dog shaking itself dry. After these little
incidents, he’d look furtively around, fear and confusion written only too
plainly on his face. He was, again, mumbling to himself and his hands, hanging
at his sides, had a constant tremor. His boots, without laces and apparently
held together by raggedy duct tape, were covered with mud, as were his lower
legs.
When the train pulled in, much to the dismay of other
passengers, he forced his way on. With looks of distaste and annoyance, the
space cleared was even greater than before. Several people glared at him
accusingly, as if his very presence had ruined their day. But he ignored them
all, staring intently at the ceiling, mumbling away incoherently.
As the train pulled away, his head came down and his cloudy
eyes met mine. For a second, they cleared and I glimpsed what he had once been.
Then he looked away, mumbling louder. I began to force my way through the crowd
towards him, surprising myself, for I didn’t know why I was doing this or what
I would do if I got to him. I had nearly the length of the car to traverse and
people were highly reluctant to make way. I pushed my through, heedless of toes
stepped on, moving forcefully through those who refused to move.
Slowly,
so slowly, I grew closer, but there was still such a vast gulf. He began to
speak, quietly at first, staring at the ceiling, head inclined backward.
Gradually, he became louder and louder, his voice clearer, like what it must
have been before his misfortune. The people around him began exchanging worried
glances, each silently begging someone else to deal with the crazy man.
“What
is wrong with all of you?” he suddenly asked, nearly shouting. He looked around
with strangely lucid eyes. “You pack yourselves in these cars like cattle. You
go off, so many of you, to jobs you hate, marking time till you die. Where is
your humanity?”
He
gradually became louder still. People looked at each other with embarrassment,
as if being embarrassed for him, he who obviously wasn’t at all embarrassed.
They looked at each other or at the floor, none meeting his accusing stare.
None, save me. He looked at me pleadingly.
“And
I, the fallen. Am I no longer good enough?” He gestured to the empty space
around him. “For fifteen years, I did this. Rode this same train with many of
you, many of the same people. I worked a job at first I loved but began to
hate, for all the hypocrisy. I saw millions of dollars wasted, left my office
building and saw people homeless and starving on the street. But it didn’t
matter, it wouldn’t happen to me. That’s what I THOUGHT! But it DID! It DID
happen to ME! But none of you care! Where is your humanity?” He was nearly
shouting, becoming more hysterical, gesturing wildly, people shrinking at each
swing of his arms.
“But
it wasn’t good enough. Not for my wife.” He buried his face in his hands, then
looked up at all of us, rage burning in his eyes. “I didn’t make enough money,
didn’t belong to the right country club. As if I cared. So she started FUCKING
my BOSS! And do you know what happened when I caught them? I got FIRED!”
From
the corner of my eye, I saw a woman whispering frantically into the little help
box, begging the train operator to summon security. Save us from the
non-conformist heretic who got fired. Because you’re something less human if
you don’t have a job apparently.
“And
you know what happened then?” He was shouting now, as loud as he could,
demanding everyone’s attention. “She divorced me. Her lawyers took everything I
had. EVERYTHING! Everything I had worked so hard for, for almost twenty years,
while she did nothing. My house! My daughter! My car! Even my precious coin
collection, the only nice thing that was really mine alone.” Here he paused,
interrogating us with his eyes. “How is this just? How is this human? And all
of you,” A look of disgust, of condemnation.
“You
look at me, in my reduced state, and all you see is another crazy, just another
bum. Not a man with two university degrees. Not a fellow human. A BUM!” He spat
this last with such venomous disgust that I’m surprised those closest didn’t
melt.
The
train began slowing and we ground to a stop at the next station. Through the
window, I could see a handful of rather burly transit cops ready to haul him
off. The cars doors opened and they seized him. For a minute or two, he
struggled, managing to free one arm, which he held up as if to ward off blows.
But then, quite suddenly, his will to resist evaporated. He went limp, fell
silent, a look of horrified defeat on his face. The cops began hauling him off
the train, and seeming as one, there came a sigh of relief from the sardine
packed humanity. He looked up and caught my eye, and a look of defiance
suddenly bubbled up.
“You’re
all cattle!” He shrieked, pulling against his captors. “And these are your
cattle cars, taking you off to be slaughtered by industrialized corporations.
Demand to be treated as human! Dare to be more than a number!”
With
that, the doors closed, cutting him off from view. The train pulled out and I
strained to get another glimpse of him before the monumentally ugly train
station blotted him out forever.
END
No comments:
Post a Comment