A Train Station

I waited seventy minutes in the cruel winter for a bus I was sure would never come. The bus had no doubt decided it important to insult me personally, and was either going to take as long as possible to arrive at my stop or it would neglect me entirely. I had finished work at five and quickly escaped out into the cold of another long and pointless Canadian winter. I knew that my commute in the morning took me over an hour and I was eager to get home as soon as possible. There was nothing waiting for me at home, but it wasn’t work. It was home. It’s strange, the allure one’s home has. No matter where I am or what I’m doing I almost always long to be at home. Yet, when I’m there, the oppressive boredom of familiarity and comfort sometimes violently pushes me out. Maybe I can never be happy. But, as I sauntered out into the frozen parking lot of the suburban mall, I was sure I would be happier at home. It had to be better than this blowing snow and frozen misery.

‘Why,’ I wondered, ‘do I still live here? Why does anyone live here? We don’t have to. I’m sure the majority of the world could populate the more temperate areas of the world. It may take some organization, and there would no doubt be dissent, but these difficulties are entirely surmountable. If we can project ourselves into space we can easily organize a massive repopulation of the Earth. Let the dissenters live where they will. If they feel they need the extreme climate to feel alive, then let them. I don’t care.’

I had finally crossed the parking lot and I shuffled into the small bus shelter to wait for the impending arrival of the bus. I hadn’t bothered to inquire when it would arrive, but I was sure it would eventually. The bus ran on a somewhat reliable circuit, and at worst the wait shouldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. On the street in front of me two cars had collided into one another and the men responsible were attempting to discern exactly who was to blame. It didn’t seem like either were willing to admit their fault, or to even concede that it was just an accident that should be attributed to the malicious weather and the resultant road conditions. I watched on with mild interest as I distributed my weight to one foot and then to another in an attempt to keep the blood flowing through my body evenly.

The time passed agonizingly slowly. I became aware that I had been waiting well over a half hour and that the bus was yet unseen. Some foolish young girls beside me got up to walk back to the mall. I glanced over as they passed and saw that they were wearing the most inappropriate of shoes for the conditions and the top of one of the girl’s barefoot was a bright red colour. The cold pain in my feet didn’t seem so bad anymore.

Eventually the bus climbed the hill and came into sight. I felt a strange mix of relief and anger. I wanted to scream and yell at the driver for having made me wait so long, but I knew it was not entirely his fault, nor was it of any real purpose to do so. I got on the bus without incident and hobbled back to an empty seat. I had finally begun to travel towards my destination, but there still remained a seemingly unconquerable distance ahead.

The city where I lived had one of the worst transit systems conceivable. The spine of the structure was a train system that travelled on set tracks above ground. They occasionally dipped underground to avoid a major intersection, but for the most part they travelled on roads of their own. These trains were the most reliable part of the transit system, but they didn’t provide nearly enough coverage over the urban sprawl of the city I reluctantly call home. Stretching out from the back bone like weak ribs were the countless bus routes that attempted to provide access to and from all of the communities of the city. The busses were almost universally loathed by all transit users in the city.

On this particular day, which was hardly different in this respect to nearly every day, I got off my late bus at the suburban train station. I walked towards the giant building which housed the train platform and began to climb the stairs. I ascended the stairs and walked on the pedestrian bridge that ran over the high speed road below. I had just about reached the doors to the station when I saw man slip. He was dressed in a large jacket, a toque, a scarf, and all the other necessary outer wear for a Canadian winter, but these would not help on the slippery surface. He opened the door with one hand, and in the other he carried a tray with two coffees lodged in the cardboard slots. He stepped through the doorway and must have placed his foot down on some hidden ice, because he slid forward and in an instant the coffees he carried flew forward out of his grip. They careened into the wall and crashed down on the ground. The coffee steamed up and quickly began to freeze. The man swore loudly and looked forlornly at his ruined drinks. I wondered who the second drink was for, and who would be more disappointed that the second drink was lost.

I provided proof of my previous transit payment and I entered the restricted fare zone. The actual train platform was outdoors with an ineffectual roof. As such, there was a large crowd gathered just inside the building attached to the platform. The crowd was able to see any oncoming trains, and when one arrived they would all push themselves out the doors onto the platform and then force themselves into the train. I joined the crowd, but I attempted to position myself in a corner. I had a habit of protecting myself with walls as best as possible. I really enjoyed being in a corner because I could only be approached from the front, not from the flanks or back. I didn’t have a fear of violent confrontation or anything, I just felt safer when isolated.

I was leaned against the wall gazing out towards the direction the train may come from without any real interest. The crowd was loud, but their voices were mostly unintelligible. I couldn’t hear anything in particular except for a strange sound I didn’t expect. It started relatively softly and grew until I could hear nothing else. I searched the crowd for the source of the sound initially without success. I remained vigilant in my search until my eyes finally fell upon a young girl sitting across the chamber from me. She was perched atop the heating vent and was obviously crying fiercely. Her coat was unzipped and half removed and her cell phone was in pieces on the wet floor in front of her. She sobbed loudly and constantly rubbed tears off her face only for fresh ones to appear. The crowd pretended not to notice, but would consistently steal a glance in her direction. The crowd was not worried. They were only sadistically interested. I stared across the room at her ands searched her face for a clue that would reveal the cause of her pain. I couldn’t find a single hint in her melancholy.

The crowd suddenly began to surge towards the doors. I glanced to my left and saw that my train had started to pull up to the platform. I looked back to the girl. She hadn’t moved, nor did she seem at all interested in the prospect of such exertion. I looked back in the direction of the train. It had arrived and the crowd had almost completely transcended the bottle neck they’d created in the door and were now cramming themselves into the train. I pushed myself off the wall, glanced once more at the sorrowful girl, and walked towards the train.

I squeezed myself into the train and felt the stifling presence of countless other people. The train pulled away and I attempted to look out the window and into the station as it passed away, but I was unable to see the girl. The train careened towards the centre of the frozen metropolis and I watched the frigid city pass by. I sat strangely still and I considered the cold world I inhabited.

The Debut of The Decoys

My band, The Decoys, had a debut of sorts last night. Here's a small clip from the performance.

The Common Ground of Killed Time

I’m sitting at a round table surrounded by people enjoying their hot caffeinated drinks and pretending to enjoy the company they brought. These people have found themselves here for a variety of reasons. Some are here engaging in business. Papers with all sorts of figures and statistics litter the table before them. The financial information is offensive in how it seems to pollute the space with its self righteousness. The people discussing business look like they’re above what they are actually beneath. The come to an independent coffee shop like this in an attempt to feel young and important again. I wonder if they know they’ve failed?

Directly across from me sits someone I vaguely know. I suppose I know more of her than I actually know her. We have only formally met once, and to be honest, I’d prefer to keep it that way. She was a lesbian, but I’m unsure if she still identifies as such. She’s sitting at a table with a young man engaged in the awkward conversation of posturing I usually attribute to dating. When I first arrived and sat down there was a moment of recognition that neither of us acted on, and one I’m sure her potential date failed to notice.

She’s a student at the local university, and the young man she’s with is clearly a student as well. He speaks, but doesn’t seem to really understand what he’s saying. It’s obviously he has taken an introductory sociology class about gender.

“So, do you, like, believe that there are any intrinsic differences between the sexes? Like, my mom really believes that men are one way and women are another. But I’m like, ‘I’m not, Mom!’ You know?”

He’s asking the basic question of the class he must have just come from. He must be pretty new to the university because the question has been pretty much answered definitively hundreds of times. Ironically, he must not yet have learned the term “the social construction of gender,” because it is completely absent from his vocabulary in the places that it should certainly be included.

“You know, there are, like, basic biological differences between things like brain chemistry and all that. But is there more? Or, like, do they not exist? What do you think?”

She shrugs and mumbles something about how she doesn’t know. The truth is, she surely knows more about gender expectations and gender roles than this upper middle class white man ever will.

Their conversation continues on, but it degenerates to the point where the man gets up to go to the counter and purchase another drink. It’s obvious the meeting just needs some silent air to resuscitate the conversation. When he returns it seems like he might as well have just read over his notes. I overhear terms like: “his moral theories,” “the worst of all possible worlds,” and “the principle of alternate possibilities.” Oh, introductory ethics; I took that too. The girl doesn’t seem impressed or wooed by his mastery of the vocabulary of a liberal arts education, either.

Their conversation now reveals itself to me as exactly similar to the one of the businesspeople to my left. It’s all posturing. It’s all a transaction. To my left the stakes are financial. A good conversation may lead to an engorged bank account; a bad meeting will probably force their next coffee choice to be less expensive. In front of me the stakes are physical and emotional. If the conversation is successful, maybe they’ll spend the night entangled in each other’s naked, groping limbs; and perhaps they’ll even fool themselves into love. If the date goes poorly, it will just be another failed attempt. Does it really matter? We’ve all got to fill our time somehow.

The Arithmetic of Worth

On Monday I awoke to find the ground polluted by a layer of suspiciously white snow. I welcomed it as I would an uninvited guest at a party I had no personal desire to attend, yet a party that I had the unfortunate obligation to endure. I didn’t know of the precipitation’s existence until I ascended the stairs to the main floor of the small house in which I had currently lodged. I had been peacefully unaware as I slept, and even as I woke I harboured a naive hope for a meaningful day. But the snow made everything difficult. First, rather than retreating back to the ignorant warmth of my bedroom, I had to find the strength to continue with my initial plans for the day. Every single subsequent action required a level of effort I was scarcely equal to. I made my way through my morning routine with little further incident - save a poor shave and a resultant small cut on the right side of my chin - and left the house.

The roads were treacherous at best. If I were a man of more experience, I may appreciate the safety of our roads compared to foreign dangers, like the threat of robbery on the roads of South America or something. I, however, have only ice to combat on my drive to work. On this particular Monday, I travelled slowly. The pace of the drive provided an ample allowance of time, with which I began to contemplate the danger of my journey. I was sure it was possible to both provide a “danger value” to represent the level of peril, and a “reward value” for the ultimate incentive for the initial risk. In my substitution of my best estimates of these values, I provided a moderate amount of peril, and a very small reward ranking. I completed this basic algebra and, as I drove onwards through the snow, I proved mathematically how absurd it was that I should be doing that exact action at that exact moment.

I pulled into the parking lot of the great mall in which I earned my mediocre-at-best living. I twisted the ignition back towards me as though I could turn back time through a simple reverse movement. My vehicle shuddered as fuel and spark ceased to travel through its mechanical heart. The parking lot seemed different today; the lines indicating how one should park were invisible and people had parked their cars however they saw fit – usually in a manner that closest resembled the vehicles nearest to them. Looking around the lot, I felt like I was able to determine the rough order in which the cars arrived, as they were clustered together in space and in their best estimations of the order prescribed by the hidden paint.

There is something utterly terrible about malls. ‘This invention,’ I mused, ‘has got to be up there with man’s worst. I mean, it seems to me comparable to atomic weaponry, the guillotine, and Rohypnol.’ This thought fermented within as I entered the mall and walked towards the clothing store at which I worked. I arrived at the door and with an abrupt sliding motion I pushed the gate like door to the side and entered. The store was a large, bright room. The walls were primarily white, with splashes of red and large posters of women in compromised positions adorning the perimeter. The wares themselves were overpriced and soon to be dated. I worked here because of friendship, a basic need of money – or at least the appearance of having a job – and because I was comfortable. Perhaps this feeling of comfort is part of the problem with malls. Perhaps comfort, along with base consumerism and obvious capitalist exploitation, contributed to the nagging feeling of disgust I harbour as I experience any shopping centre. I didn’t have much time to reflect on this growing feeling before I was pulled back into the conscious world we all share.

“Morning, Jacob,” Mary said. Mary was about my age, which was on the edge of too old to be still working a job like that, and a somewhat dark person. She dyed her hair black and wore tattoos down her arms in what seemed to be an expression of both defiance and independence.

“Good morning!” I replied in a voice that hardly sounded to me like my own. Working retail had this long term effect on me of creating an entirely different and false costume I could, and usually did, wear. My voice was altered into one of constant cheer and welcoming. I hated it.

“How’re you, Mary?” I asked as I walked past. This gesture of asking and walking was part of my fake persona. “Do I care how she is?” I wondered. I hoped I did. I sincerely hoped that I was concerned about her current situation, but I was scared that I was only interested in my own wellbeing. Every life is in itself its own personal tragedy. It’s hard to recognise anyone else as anything except somebody in relation to yourself. I don’t think I heard Mary’s response to my question.

The store possessed a strange quality in the morning. The doors had not yet been opened and the music intended and designed to facilitate the most amount of monetary exchange had not yet been turned on. The store was empty and silent as I passed from the front desk to the back room. I worked in the stock room, which in essence was little more than a closet that provided triple duty as stock room, break room, and storage. The room was entered from the sales floor through a large mirrored doorway into a small cube like area. The floor was tiled in red, white, and dirt. I took an immediate left and squeezed myself through the tiny passage way made up by shelves of sweaters on my left and stacked bins of rolled clothing on my right. I raised my right hand and pressed the small buttons on the time clock until I had typed out my employee number. I then placed my hand down on the indicated space and had my palm read as my password. The novelty of this futuristic device had long worn off, and was replaced by the fear of germs. Beside the time clock sat a small bottle of hand sanitizer.

This is what it had come down to. I was at work, and timed in. One minute had passed. I had earned fifteen cents. I was certain that minute was worth more than fifteen cents, but somebody somewhere had done their arithmetic and discovered the value of my time that we could apparently both agree upon. It was beyond depressing. It seemed impossible for there to be a worse feeling than this feeling of worthlessness coupled with the impending eight hours and twenty nine minutes of servitude. I leaned back against the wall, closed my eyes, and sighed. I felt so crestfallen, and, although my situation not so unusual, I felt much like a martyr. I brought my hands up to my face and pushed my glasses up on to my forehead. I began rubbing my eyes strongly with my hands. I pulled my hands away and took a deep breath. I moved towards the computer and sat down in front of it. I searched within and found the resolve I needed. ‘This will not be,’ I thought, ‘the tragedy of my life.’ I reached forward and turned the computer on as the snow continued to pervert the streets outside.

A Prologue.

I'm not quite sure what the point is of all this. I don't believe it's narcissism or anything of that sort, because I'd rather be left alone. Perhaps I just want somewhere to store some thoughts, or, maybe I hope this will provide some motivation to create.

Regardless of my uncertainty of greater meaning, I do know - or at least I think I know - the more basic purpose I had in mind during this process of genesis. I hope to use this medium to post literary attempts, simple thoughts, and responses to a variety of artistic endeavors. These responses will no doubt relate mostly to literature, but I do hope to contemplate other forms as well.

I wonder how this will go.