He was a tiny man, black, with a white beard, wearing a pink polo shirt and khakis. He wielded a trumpet. He was standing in the aisle playing a lively solo in time to the beat of a silent, non-existent (to the passengers) jazz band. Farm fields streamed by the train windows. The man’s eyes gleamed. After a few minutes, he, too, became silent and non-existent. Passengers were dozing. It would be a while.
He was a large man, Asian, clean-shaven, in a tank top and sweatpants. He took slow, heavy steps down the aisle, seeming to look for something, scowling at selected passengers. He held a child’s plastic windmill in his hand, blowing into it now and then to get it going. He laughed a loud laugh as the train slowed to a stop at station none of the passengers remembered seeing before. He got off the train, still laughing.
He was a shiny man, translucent white, with sunglasses. His suit sparkled in the late afternoon light from the train windows. His blonde hair curled around his neck; he was young. He snapped his fingers incessantly as he danced down the aisle. He seemed to be high on something, murmuring, “Dig it, dig it, you cats.” But maybe that was just the way he was. He went into the next train car and we didn’t see him after that.
He was a cardboard man, an image of his face was on a poster held by a tall business-like woman who had gotten up from her seat. She stepped into the aisle and raised the poster, turning it in several directions, saying loudly, “Has anyone seen this man? We hope to find him before anything happens. It’s been a long day.” The face on the poster was that of a middle-aged, middle-Eastern-looking man with kind eyes and a beautiful smile. A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek. The passengers were indifferent.
A baby was crawling down the aisle of the passenger car, dressed in a blue one-piece romper, happily picking up pieces of paper and dust, putting them in its mouth, then spitting them out. The passengers seemed to think this was charming, and said various things to the baby, like “Hey, little fellah,” or “Where’s your mommy?” The baby’s progress was slow, but its mood remained gleeful. “I’m a man. I spell M-A-N, man,” it said at one point in a gruff voice, but that made no sense, so everyone pretended they hadn’t heard it.
— Macoff
He was a large man, Asian, clean-shaven, in a tank top and sweatpants. He took slow, heavy steps down the aisle, seeming to look for something, scowling at selected passengers. He held a child’s plastic windmill in his hand, blowing into it now and then to get it going. He laughed a loud laugh as the train slowed to a stop at station none of the passengers remembered seeing before. He got off the train, still laughing.
He was a shiny man, translucent white, with sunglasses. His suit sparkled in the late afternoon light from the train windows. His blonde hair curled around his neck; he was young. He snapped his fingers incessantly as he danced down the aisle. He seemed to be high on something, murmuring, “Dig it, dig it, you cats.” But maybe that was just the way he was. He went into the next train car and we didn’t see him after that.
He was a cardboard man, an image of his face was on a poster held by a tall business-like woman who had gotten up from her seat. She stepped into the aisle and raised the poster, turning it in several directions, saying loudly, “Has anyone seen this man? We hope to find him before anything happens. It’s been a long day.” The face on the poster was that of a middle-aged, middle-Eastern-looking man with kind eyes and a beautiful smile. A tear rolled down the woman’s cheek. The passengers were indifferent.
A baby was crawling down the aisle of the passenger car, dressed in a blue one-piece romper, happily picking up pieces of paper and dust, putting them in its mouth, then spitting them out. The passengers seemed to think this was charming, and said various things to the baby, like “Hey, little fellah,” or “Where’s your mommy?” The baby’s progress was slow, but its mood remained gleeful. “I’m a man. I spell M-A-N, man,” it said at one point in a gruff voice, but that made no sense, so everyone pretended they hadn’t heard it.
— Macoff
Great characters.- Opelikakat
ReplyDeleteThis is really good. You write with such depth and color. Evocative
ReplyDeleteMusical, Cinematic and full of texture. Great stuff.
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