En Flagrante Whatever
By Giania • Jun 18th, 2008 at 9:00 pm • Category: Fiction| Hot: |  |  | | | |
A clear and flagrant disrespect for all things was extruded from the two young men chatting back and forth on the mostly empty train car and left the air palpably unclean. Crisp suits, slick and greasy hair, shifty bright eyes, and utter animal stupidity were readily apparent upon a quick glance. Typical upper-class white boys with no sense of purpose beyond where their dicks will be by the end of the night or who they can roll under the bus to get the next raise. No love except the long-since-abandoned love for mother, and a lust for money and the status associated with it that they assume is love.
‘This is why people think Hannibal Lecter is cool,’ I thought. ‘He eats people this obscenely disgusting. Something to be said for ridding the world of human waste.‘ Braying laughter made me wince and shift in my seat. It was an ugly, filthy train, and these were ugly thoughts started by the ugliest kind of beautiful people. I wasn’t really in the mood to dig to the bottom of my gear bag for my headphones because I knew I’d likely miss my stop if I didn’t pay attention and I certainly wasn’t comfortable having them out in this area of town.
“…so then I said, ‘well you know I remember you saying that we could have that done by tomorrow’, right in front of the manager. He’s going to catch so much shit.”
“Well did he?”
“Pfft, no. He said we could have one part of it done – maybe – but whatever, these fucking computer nerds get so fuckin high and mighty. Meh-meh-meh can’t do this, blah blah blah stability that, standards ‘n shit. Makes me gag. It’s just an excuse for being lazy.”
“I know, right? They take the simplest stuff and turn it into a big production. They’re the ones who know how to make the stuff. If the boss wants something, I tell him we’re doing it, because I know these guys make up deadline extensions so they can waste more billable hours.”
“Such a fuckin farce, am I right?”
“Definitely! So where we going tonight…”
I rolled my eyes for and no one in particular. ‘What a crock of pure, unadulterated bullshit,‘ I breathed quietly to myself, illiciting a glance that suggested perhaps talking to myself in public was a great way to get into more trouble than I cared for just then. I could tell just by half-listening that if those two fine, upstanding gentlemen were faced with a cartload of Grade A manure and a clearly labeled can of Shinola that they would not be able to discern the disparity between the two. This was getting nastier by the minute. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, making it hot, and the little voice in the back of my mind was beginning to whisper sweet nothings. That little voice coyly suggested that I explain to these over-privileged wastes of flesh exactly what their place was in the grand scheme of the universe (hint: nowhere worth caring about) and to inform them that their only recourse if they had any moral fiber left – assuming it hadn’t all been used up repairing damages to overpriced suits from nights of wasted rape-and-pillage – was to get out at the nearest stop and make sure their head was directly on the third rail when the train started up again, to make absolutely sure they were killed. That little voice was a real cunt like that, always goading for fights that served no higher purpose and most certainly made no friends.
Luckily, a swift jerk of the train coming to a halt reminded me that I could get off the train here and put all of that behind me. It was for the best since trolling wasn’t really my style, no matter how satisfying it seemed on an imaginary level. Scrambling to gather my various and sundry (but wholly necessary of course) items from the seat beside me I saddled one bag firmly over one shoulder and the other bag on my back. Visible effort moved me off the train before I could succumb to that little voice, despite the fact that I could practically smell the smoke from the burning, judgemental eyes of the two who so brutally deserved some kind of reality check. When the dust and wind of the departing train removed their car from my line of sight by way of flapping my hair into my face I finally relaxed. A little bit anyway.
Color and sound were at a premium here which was undoubtly the draw of this stop over the next one, which was closer to where I needed to be anyway. The chuffing of approaching and exiting trains and their warning whistles were generally the most noise to be had. The landscape surrounding the platform was comprised wholly of grey industrial buildings and derelict housing. Terrific for urban exploration but not exactly a popular spot. Unless of course one was a grey-faced industrial worker or a derelict. Yet as the industrial sector collapsed over the last few years even the derelicts moved on to greener pastures. It was probably just too depressing. Not that it was by any means a safe neighborhood, which made me pause to make sure all my gear was strapped down tight.
Once I’d had to run nearly a mile with all my things to make sure that the dark figure who’d stumbled out to meet me as I descended the time worn steps to the street wasn’t still following me. He (at least I assumed it was a he) chased me most of the way, gurgling what I’d taken for obscenities in an alternately high and gutteral tone. To this day I have no idea what he wanted, and haven’t seen him again but it was a very memorable experience. Still, given the choice between the chance of running another record breaking mile or enduring any more inane prattle from those subhuman ex-frat boys I couldn’t help but think I’d made the right decision. I felt that little voice in the back of my mind rising to call me a pussy but I ignored it and tromped in the direction of my friends’ house. It had been a while since I’d spent any time with them and I was glad to remedy the situation on a night like this.
It had looked, until the call came in a few hours ago, to be another boring Friday. There is a certain standard of tinny emptiness that comes on a Friday night. Particularly those that come and go without anything even aproximating a noteworthy event. Such things as cannot be avoid but still leave a certain imprint that lingers through the weekend and onto Monday. A dried out feeling of loss, like another year somehow slipped by and nothing came of it, even though it’s really only one day of the week. Yet an empty Friday can set the tone for several days to come. Sure, sometimes it’s welcome when the week has been hell and there are a dozen or more parties laid out on the horizon like the glittering lights of Las Vegas approached by highway. The lights go from glittering to blinding and opting out of everything seems like the best idea anyone’s ever had; the weekend goes on to feel like a sigh of relief made large.
Then there are empty Fridays that spawn other things. What am I doing? Where am I going? What’s the motherfucking point, anyway? Such introspective escapes, hardly in proper e-prime form, lead nowhere and get there faster than shit runs through a goose. ‘Yet,’ I mused while rounding a corner into a world of slightly more color, with fresh billboards and open shops, ‘when the music is too loud, and you aren’t too old and you aren’t drunk, aren’t high, with a plan or prospect of a plan, relatively few options present themselves lest one is very ambitious.‘ Very ambitious, in the context of that thought, is as simple as a hobby, or even acting on the fulfillment of basic needs. In a place so awkwardly desperate it did seem pretty simple to lose the will to realize such things, though.
Thoughts turning darker by the minute (hardly any way to gear up for a party), I crammed my hands deep in my pockets and decided to roll with this serious navel-gazing type activity. Snippets of Stooges songs cruised through my brain whether I liked them or not. ‘Iggy’s not much of a singer really but there still kind of a crude animal mangetisim or draw or something like that.‘ The closer I got to my destination, the closer my mind crept to empty and the better I felt. Nothing like telling all those stray thoughts and little voices to go fuck themselves for a little while to really clear out the old noggin. I turned down corners here and there, going down familiar streets without even considering in the slightest the route itself or who I might run into even though I could think of a lot of people I could and did not want to run into just then.
All in all I looked a lot like I felt (i.e. like shit) and it was really best no one saw me but my mindset had no truck with such considerations anyhow. As my train of thought – ‘…are wombats marsuipials?‘ – wandered further and further from myself and my concerns du jour, the less I cared. It was down right liberating. It was at least as liberating as it was par for the course, at any rate. So many expressions: train of thought, par for the course, at any rate, du jour… where did they even come from? Is that kind of vernacular useful, or just idiotic, bland filler expression for lack of anything useful to say? No good. As I closed in on my destination, my thoughts started to turn heavy again. A touch too much I, me, and my. Such unpleasant results came from such thought patterns but it was very difficult to break free from once the habit is formed. The withdrawal seemed like it might be easier than, say, heroin but working up the cojones to quit seemed much harder. I reckoned that eventually I’d be the mental equivalent of cancer patients with throat bypasses that still smoked.
That’s all for now! If you found this more fun than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, you might also like a couple other posts here!
