He wavered, from his messenger bag forced uncomfortably into the few centimeters of flesh living near his lower rib bones, and his back being pressed up against the stubborn door of a sardined train car. It was the evening rush hour on the six train, and this was his routine.
As body parts continued to bang and poke, like uncoordinated drums roles upon his flesh on, in his head, he attempted to run down a list of ‘to-dos’ and ‘if I could I’ll…” stretching from the southernmost tip of Manhattan, up the six line to Pelham Park, and back down to the southernmost tip of the Bronx; where he lived alongside his beloved, their dog named Molly, an un-stackable collection of digital music, and his towering reading and research library. Right now, however, he was distracted from attempting to suppress his overflowing anxiety from oozing the life force from his body and the pressing paranoia that left him feeling pancaked inside of this routine train ride.
In that moment, with the added scenic stench of an un-bathed and overworked armpit dousing him from above with drizzling malicious intent, he wondered, “why was I so compelled to ride in trains as a kid?” He thought of the rides he would take years back; journeying from Manhattan to Brooklyn, and back, or to Queens, and even sometimes, to the dangerous Bronx… All for the sake of riding in a New York City Subway car. Then again, there he was, flatter than a train wheel-pressed New York City rat-panini sandwich, and questioning, “Why in hell didn’t I take the express train…”
With Perpetually Oozing love,