The Odd Man In An Even World

A man in all black stumbled down the aisle of side-by-side seating until landing abruptly in an open space in the aisle. The man in the window seat, dressed in a suit and tie, shuffled, repositioning his things and making space for the Drunkard next to him.

I’ve had just about enough of this goddamn train, no drink, no women, and nowhere to sit.

Well, the Good Man started, you found a seat here, next to me.

        I reckon you don’t count, Mister.

The Good Man returned to his newspaper, ignoring the Drunkard, laughing in his head, giving it all to God.

Has the cart lady come by yet? I could really use a nip.

She did a few moments ago if I recall correctly.

         Where’s your drink? The Drunkard asked.

I stay away from the stuff. No particular reason, I never had a taste for it, I suppose.

Well, howdy fucking doody, that’s just fucking fantastic for you.

After the Drunkard sarcastically nodded his head to the Good Man, he pulled a pint from his inside shirt pocket and screwed off the top, taking a pull, then screwing the cap back on and sliding it into his tattered blazer.

Sir, if you wish to sit next to me, I request you to refrain from such unnecessary vulgarity.

Yes, said the Drunkard, if you wish, Mr. Man.

They rode on in silence, yet the Drunkard somewhat perturbed the Good Man. The way he saw it was that all men must live with a code, a code in accordance with society, each upholding the standards that create a functioning, civilized society. The way he sees it, you do not step on his shoe because you do not want your shoe stepped on. What shall a man do with a man who has no shoes? The words the Drunkard spoke pushed him further, in his head, because what was the unduly treatment a punishment for? He was traveling on business, leaving a wife and four children at home, doing his part to raise four future additions to the same civilization he did his best to help function properly. 

They rode on in silence, and the Drunkard, well, drunker, was pissed that a man for whom he imagined had it all could not put up with a little flash of obscenity that shined on him. He thought that this Good Man had it all, assumedly. He assumed that the man in the window seat had everything that would make a man act the way he did, yet he could not accommodate one who had nothing save the bottle.

You have a family? Kids? Wife? I’ll bet you do. I’ll bet you have everything in this world a man could ever want, but you’re on a fucking train headed nowhere, headed out into the night of an Ice Age melting.

Sir, I do have all of those things. I work very hard to retain them, and if that is something you lack, you should ask yourself why you do not have them instead of projecting your own misgivings in the form of harassing better men.

Better men? What makes you better than me? Your Italian suit and shined shoes? 

If I were to venture a guess, I would say what separates me from you is my willingness to rise above the things that pull you under. Have you ever wondered why you have this lot in life? Have you no curiosity? After all, we are both men. This life you know you ruined is like the train, and your tracks are broken; fix them or fly all the way to hell.

Seems to me that no matter the situation, I always end up losing the things I want most. Maybe the more I want something, the more it disappears, the more it recedes into an abyss, and the farther I chase, the farther I lose myself in that same abyss. I know no other way. The trick might be to want for nothing, so I thought to go the other way. Stop chasing after things and let them come to me, but there ain’t nothing or nobody knocking down my door. Now, I sound just like a drunk, but after all, maybe that’s exactly what I am and should be. I’m not long for this world that men like you create. There are conditions I just can’t meet, no matter how far I chase or how much I want. Everywhere I look, someone has something or someone else, so I sit here and wait for something else to replace this bottle I tuck in my shirt. Even if I found it or it found me, could it dry me out, or am I meant for this? The odd man in an even world. 

The good man is good, and he could identify that amidst this tragically broken man was a man the same as him. The beginnings and tendencies, the will and the luck were different, but if his words were true, how could he justify the disdain he immediately felt? What if their positions were switched? Would he still demand the same decencies? The Good Man shuttered to think of where he’d be if the things that went right in his life were to have gone left. What good is a man void of compassion for those worse off than him? He always thought his standards were justified because the more respectable a man was, the more respect he had for himself. But what if self-respect was something like faith in God? What if some men don’t believe despite their attempts to see the light?

The Drunkard reached into his shirt and snuck another nip from the half-empty bottle, sinking steadily in his seat and fearing he showed too much. His mask was off, and now his face shown bare against a setting sun, against all the other faces in the train looking west and purer than his. The Drunkard never liked conversation because of his propensities to show all that mess, even to strangers who cared not or little to hear it all. He hoped inside of the tragedy, and he thought maybe that was his worst mistake, a mistake to show his oddness, to show the incongruity of his life. 

You know, the Good Man started; no man is too far gone. A man may be smack dab in the center of misfortune but never fully a ruin until his body sees its last gasp. I wish I had more to give to you, something more substantive and long-lasting. Words are merely words, merely sounds if not taken as truth and then worked into a framework from which to build. The point is, sir, you’re responsible for yourself and nothing else unless chosen otherwise. You must find what you live for and then live for it. Life is not meant to be lived in the tragedy but rather lived through it. Each day is a reset where you get exactly what you give.  

The Drunkard fought back tears of inward rage like he did when he was jumping trains and smashing bottles or, on the loneliest of nights, staring at stars wishing for all of them to crash down on his bended head. He saw himself as an infection, a virus the body rejects, a virus causing an immune response in the form of scowls and projectile shame shot from the eyes of these “better men.” He didn’t believe any soul could ever love him, even if they said they did. He cast out most folks and all those he should have kept around; he didn’t believe he was worth it like they were all lying to him in some sick, coordinated joke. A defensive paranoia, the only thing that never judged him was brown water in glass reciprocals.

The riders rode on in silence as the car became just as dark as the other side of the window. Time for the passengers to sleep or self-reflect, and as our Drunkard sank deeper, the bottle became more and more empty, filling up his chest with little more than a warm feeling in his gut and blurry vision. He began to think of all those past moments that he just couldn’t wrangle, the ones he could never sustain, the love he just couldn’t keep.

The train pulled into the station as the Drunkard drained the last drops. He stuffed the empty bottle in the seat pocket before him and turned to the Good Man again to extend an apology and thanks for words unwelcome but words he needed to hear. The Good Man was asleep, dreaming about his loves, sleeping sound, and he dared not wake him. He moved on without a stir and stepped silent, stepping steady as the poison he ingested made his feet move as they should. His hand clutched a single bag containing the inventory of a life lived lightly but weighing more than he wished to carry, a man lost again, the odd man in an even world.

Cover Art: Train Track To Hell - RC DeWinter