death by cotton

tomorrow my nephew turns 9. i was 14 when we was born, and i have no recollection what 14 felt like anymore. on the phone yesterday my mom sounded exactly like my grandmother used to: she kept interrupting me because she thought she knew what i was going to say, or else she just couldn't really hear. i've been out of high school for a decade.

on monday i was sitting on the red line subway with my sunglasses on and my ipod in. i wasn't in a bad mood by any means, just in the post-work zone out. i was listening to grizzly bear's veckatimest for the second time. something about the music, the motion of the train, the way i had isolated myself in this sea of people, it all led me to thinking about death. in the time it took to go from the chicago stop to the north/clybourn stop, i felt more alarmed about dying than i had in a long time. i used to say i wasn't afraid to die, and i think that was true. i also don't think i was looking it square in the eyes.

this morning, when walking to the el, there were thousands of the those little cottony things that come from who knows where this time of year. there were so many it looked like it was snowing, and i was admiring the beauty of the feathery wisps and marveling at this snow scene in june when all of the sudden one of those little fuckers flew directly into my eye!
that's what i imagined death to be like the other day on the train.

waiting, watching, wondering

my absolute, all-time, favorite seat on the train is the single seat positioned perpendicular to the window in the middle of the car. this seat allows for maximum city-seeing with minimal interference.

in the morning, however, i'm happy to take any seat i can get. today i was in one of the two seats that faces two more seats directly across the aisle. to my left was a man in a suit and probably his early 30s. across from me was a girl about my age who had gotten on at southport.

at north & clybourn, our forced quartet was completed as a man sat down in the last remaining spot. at first glance i assumed this man to be some bad-ass bike messenger. he had a small frame and not an ounce of fat. i'm pretty sure he had more muscle in his skinny right calf than i do in my whole body. he had a shaved head and donned thick, leather workboots, a bulky brown vest, and sunglasses. the train sped towards clark & division, and i watched him. i was staring, but i couldn't help it. and the more i observed the more i wondered if my initial impression was incorrect.

was that chipped, red fingernail polish on his pinky or dried blood? through his lightly tinted sunglasses i could see his eyes darting around the train car--not settling on anyone or anything, refusing to rest.

was that toothbrush in his sleeve pocket a means to keep his bike free of mud and rust? or was it used every morning with toothpaste? as the girl next to him readjusted, he quickly moved the arm closest to her in a manner suggesting he wanted nothing to do with personal contact.

was that leather belt and piece of coated wire tied around the loop in his vest a bike messenger's talisman or a homeless man's morning find? i had my earphones in, but his lips formed sentenced- length shapes. whether a silent voicing of internal thoughts or casual conversation to his seatmate, however, i couldn't tell.

was that deep dent in the upper part of his forehead a part of the natural, uneven topography every skull displays? or was it the reason he was now repeatedly banging his right elbow into the partition separating the exit and the aisle? was he pumping himself up for a long day of riding, or preparing to jump off the train and beat someone down?

as the train pulled into chicago & state, i stood to exit the train. he remained seated but raised his arms straight up in front of him and held them there. was this gesture a silent request for me to take his bony hands and help him to his feet?
or was he pretending to be a zombie?