Express
This is what happens when you take a commuter rail every day.
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Express
“I’m sorry…” Robert M. muttered as he clenched his fist listlessly and heard the click. He could hardly look the fellow in the eye.
“I am so sorry…” Robert said again as he moved down the aisle. Again, he could barely muster a smile. He pulled the painted-gold hard plastic brim of his squared cap down, gathering himself before moving on. For the next several minutes, he’d scarcely lift his eyes. Robert would politely sprinkle in wishes of good evening or good morning, but mostly his days were full of feeble, spineless apologies. Sure, there were probably other options out there, but with his mother’s condition, and Emile… he didn’t have time to shop around. He needed to be brave. Besides, he never could have imagined at first how grim he would feel. They never mentioned, when they issued him his cap and belt, the toneless faces of the clientele, the crumpled, flimsy state of the ten-trip passes or the sheer terror of punching and pocketing a one-way.
Robert passed a series of consecutive monthly passes and felt light. Seasoned riders. But he knew that sequences like this never lasted, and, indeed, a kind looking man, maybe fifty-eight years of age, wearing a straw hat and filling out a Sudoku in blue ink, presented what must have been a one way. Robert noted immediately the lack of tatter brought about by a warm pocket or a folded wallet. Reaching to the side of his belt, Robert handled his puncher. This was his true identity: the Authority didn’t allow for much individuality, but they did graciously offer an assortment of punchers on his first day, allowing Robert to pick one, just one, from the shimmering lot. There was a piece of scratch paper on the table as well, allowing for experimentation. He remembered selecting one and punching into the paper, then hastily scrambling to snatch another, unsatisfied with the shape and style of the first. The next few weren’t quite right – too jagged, too circular, too big – but after trying several at random, he soon discovered the top hat punch. It was truly magnificent, Robert thought. He recalled to games of Monopoly with his father and Philippe and sifting through the tokens before the game began. In all its beauty and compact elegance, the top hat could alleviate the day’s melancholy. It would have to.
Robert softly apologized to the man in the hat and shuffled along. The mechanized voice sounded and Robert studied his watch. Three minutes late. Just like yesterday.
Several new passengers boarded. “Good morning passengers, welcome to your seven-fifty eight express train. Next stop, last stop: Grand Central Terminal…”
Robert waited for the crushing blow.
“…Please have all tickets out for collection.”
_________________________
Express
“I’m sorry…” Robert M. muttered as he clenched his fist listlessly and heard the click. He could hardly look the fellow in the eye.
“I am so sorry…” Robert said again as he moved down the aisle. Again, he could barely muster a smile. He pulled the painted-gold hard plastic brim of his squared cap down, gathering himself before moving on. For the next several minutes, he’d scarcely lift his eyes. Robert would politely sprinkle in wishes of good evening or good morning, but mostly his days were full of feeble, spineless apologies. Sure, there were probably other options out there, but with his mother’s condition, and Emile… he didn’t have time to shop around. He needed to be brave. Besides, he never could have imagined at first how grim he would feel. They never mentioned, when they issued him his cap and belt, the toneless faces of the clientele, the crumpled, flimsy state of the ten-trip passes or the sheer terror of punching and pocketing a one-way.
Robert passed a series of consecutive monthly passes and felt light. Seasoned riders. But he knew that sequences like this never lasted, and, indeed, a kind looking man, maybe fifty-eight years of age, wearing a straw hat and filling out a Sudoku in blue ink, presented what must have been a one way. Robert noted immediately the lack of tatter brought about by a warm pocket or a folded wallet. Reaching to the side of his belt, Robert handled his puncher. This was his true identity: the Authority didn’t allow for much individuality, but they did graciously offer an assortment of punchers on his first day, allowing Robert to pick one, just one, from the shimmering lot. There was a piece of scratch paper on the table as well, allowing for experimentation. He remembered selecting one and punching into the paper, then hastily scrambling to snatch another, unsatisfied with the shape and style of the first. The next few weren’t quite right – too jagged, too circular, too big – but after trying several at random, he soon discovered the top hat punch. It was truly magnificent, Robert thought. He recalled to games of Monopoly with his father and Philippe and sifting through the tokens before the game began. In all its beauty and compact elegance, the top hat could alleviate the day’s melancholy. It would have to.
Robert softly apologized to the man in the hat and shuffled along. The mechanized voice sounded and Robert studied his watch. Three minutes late. Just like yesterday.
Several new passengers boarded. “Good morning passengers, welcome to your seven-fifty eight express train. Next stop, last stop: Grand Central Terminal…”
Robert waited for the crushing blow.
“…Please have all tickets out for collection.”