Next Stop
Jackson to Western, I have the afternoon off. A section of fluorescent bulbs flickers above my head. The grime collects in the corners climbing up the walls while the entire human race walks along the center. Foot-wide benches serve as a dividing line, dividing the foot traffic, each ped-Xing.
The train arrives, and I sit near the doors. A half-empty car half full of human beings. I notice a man enter behind me. I hear his stick dust the floor in front of him. He wears dark sunglasses as he reaches for a railing to steady himself. I ask him if he would like help with a seat, and he gladly obliges. He sits and wears a smile staring off into space. I was staring directly at him until I thought maybe he had a feeling someone was peering. I looked around and probably looked blind like him. I wondered how he gets home; how does he know when he gets there? That seeing stick can’t make up for a pair of eyes. He relies heavily on the aid and help of others, but how can he trust them? These scoundrels, these empty-hearted maniacs, these false do-gooders running amuck in the Land we share. Some are in suits, others in rags, all equally disgusting, and I fit in like epoxy. Liars and demons, the lot of us, the olds, the youngs, and especially the teenaged.
The snow falls on the street above until we breach from below, blowing past the preceding stops, the last being Division. The train begins to elevate the next stop is Damen Station. January is always so bitterly cold, a frozen hellscape of memories suspended and stuck in the places they were made. My fingerless gloves are degrading and reek from cigarette smoke. I roll my own, so I need my fingers free. I could use a break from all of this. We depart Damen, and the Blind stands to rise, grips the railing and adjusts himself. We might be neighbors. I step off the car after him and follow some feet behind. How does he find the steps? He makes it out at a pace that could be confused for a person with working eyes. On the street, he turns right, heading north on Western.
I cross the street to Bucktown Liquors. I love a half-pint and crack the spine halfway home just past the Mcdonald's. The parking lot smells like death, and the patrons walk toward it. We’re all walking toward it, filling our bodies with flame retardant and hand sanitizer. Armitage is filthy, and so are the rats rummaging through the dumpsters behind Arturo’s. The Blind is probably home by now, but I can't see which way to go.
Cover Art: Subway Painting - Canyon Webb
