A disheveled boy in dark clothes sits on the Redline in the late afternoon on a blustery, yet sunny spring day. He sits in a seat just next to the door. Bell tolls and wheels turn…
Across from him facing his entrance, a middle-aged women’s eyes dart to the nearest advertisement, avoiding the obviousness of her cautious stare. Stop after stop, an anxious emptiness screams from the hard blue, felt-like cloth to his right; bastardized by standing passengers who just won’t take that chance. Could he be dangerous? Is he ill? Is he on drugs? (at the moment, no)… and the adjacent scanner continues her audit with discretion.
The bounce of the tracks completes the boy’s usual mental courtesy flush goodbye morning madness. He reaches into his bag… He reaches, and the scanner’s curious eyes don’t widen, but they intensify from within. White suit pants stick to the skin. What might he do? Nervous trick. Don’t breathe! Your fucking time of reckoning has come bitch! Put your lips on my barrel and eat bullet.
He reaches into his bag and takes out a red and gold, hardbound book.
This disheveled boy in dark clothes sits on the Redline in the late afternoon on a blustery, yet sunny spring day, reading a book. Train stops and passengers rush in, quick to fill every seat. Mitigate mind! Freedom of foot! Homeward bound you wanting wanderers…
…The boy with the book is more dangerous
-Herf Yamaya ©
