Trainwreck
Unsure as to why he’s unbuttoned his coat, untied his shoes, and thrown their laces to the ground, he begins singing “You Are My Sunshine” at the top of his lungs.
This is it,” he thinks to himself. He feels his nerves unfurl, feels his heartbeat spread through his entire body like fire in a windstorm. His hands begin to swim, and his soaked clothes tug on his ribs as he swallows bubbles of panic everywhere: Ten more seconds, he knows, and all will be dead. Attempting to re-live the important moments of his life, he can only recollect stubbed toes, barbed words, hang nails, the dehydrated film at the corner of chapped lips. He counts his family members in his head, six, and then counts the people on the train car, fourteen. The metal grinding against the tracks grows louder as he rises from his vinyl seat, pacing from one side of the car to the other, the sway of the train tossing him right to left, back and forth, until he tumbles to the floor. Groveling at feet he seems not to recognize are his own, he says, “It’s only moments now.” Amid visions of the crash splattering him and everyone else everywhere, he stands to meet death with his head held high. Yet “Why are you so calm?” he shouts to the train, demanding an answer he can’t convceive for the life of him. Puzzled as to why he’s unbuttoned his coat, untied his shoes, and thrown their laces to the ground, he warbles “You Are My Sunshine” at the top of his lungs; fright has fused with his skin like dry wax. He turns to a man who sits behind a copy of The New York Times and cries, in desperate stupefaction, “Is that what you want to be reading when you die?” Suddenly sparks fly as if from the floor, evaporating the liquid legs beneath him; water drips, drops, trickles from the ceiling; and the train, pouncing on a hairpin turn, sends him flying like a broken rubberband. He stares at the recalcitrant calm occupying the blue benches, the letter “F” naming the route to his death, the graffiti-strewn walls that will momentarily crush him. Rocking with his knees to his chest, he feigns his childhood; but death won’t spare him a second time. Eyes meet but don’t touch him, and the shadow of anxiety eclipses the train. The smell of death grows stronger until he just can’t take it anymore. He runs to the doors, counts as he forces them open; “One inch at a time,” he whispers to himself. He can no longer bear the anticipation, “Two inches,” people stare unsure, “Five inches,” a woman rises and creeps towards him, “Six inches,” he hears himself laughing loudly as the metal lacerates the meat of his hands, “Nine inches,” the results look promising, “Ten inches,” he screams as he forces the rest of the door open and jumps.
