Further Train

“That’s not it at all,” said Rupert, “I think you’re an oof!” He hadn’t meant to say that last part. A kid running up and down the commuter train car had run headfirst into Rupert’s stomach. Before Rupert could catch his breath and stall Jermaine’s insulted response, a tunnel cut off cell reception.

“Fuck!” shouted Rupert. Did Jermaine think that Rupert had called him an oaf? He’d wanted to say an amazing man, or partner, or friend--no, that gave the wrong impression--but it didn’t matter now. There was no time. Jermaine’s plane was about to take off--why hadn’t he mentioned the flight? And the timing of the damn tunnel was perverse.

He realized the father was in front of him, the boy back in his seat. “I’m sorry about Alan,” the father said. “I hope he didn’t interrupt anything important.”

Thoughts: “Keep hoping.” “No, my phone calls aren’t important.” “No, he just ruined my private life.”

“No,” Rupert said. “Anything that can be ruined by a child’s collision wasn’t built well to begin with. Sorry I yelled.” The father left, and Rupert wondered if what he’d said was true. If he could believe it.

He could, perhaps, try believing it.

More Train

Matt sat on the train in silent thought. It vibrated and occasionally jostled beneath him; the rythym lulled him. He stared, half out the window and half into nowhere, and daydreamed. Someone near shouted, “Fuck!” but Matt didn’t twitch or look.

He always wondered how he looked when he was sitting like this. Sitting still was a hard-won skill, and he hoped that it made him look impressive, stoic, and thoughtful. He thought about other guys thinking that Matt was impassive, imperturbable, badass. They were just reading and listening to music, but in Matt’s head they were quietly impressed by Matt’s focus.

And he thought about the girls on the train. He wanted them to think he was cool, interesting, and to wonder what he was thinking. Mysterious. Deep. He thought about what if one came over and asked what he was thinking, what he might say and how that might go. He’d be interesting, they’d talk, and she’d give him her number, and a cascade of interesting fantasies followed.

A cute girl got off the train. For a second, Matt wanted to say something. But he sat still, and nobody talked to him. In his head, they were nervous.

Train

Linsey saw him every day. Sitting on the train, perfectly quiet, perfectly still. Looking not quite out the window and not quite out into space, he looked so rooted in thought that should the train derail, Linsey believed that it would crumple around him and he would be untouched.

She wanted to ask him what he was thinking about. She imagined what he might say. He’s a student remembering his last lesson. Or a young professor pondering the next one. An engineer planning details, or a philosopher conceiving truth.

Today was Linsey’s birthday, and she was wondering again. Her stop was still three stops out, and she decided to give herself a present.

She walked over. “Hey,” she said. He looked up. “I see you here every day, and, um...” she looked down, then back. “I’ve always wanted to know what you’re thinking so intently.”

He looked at her. “Um, wow,” he said. “It’s kinda weird. You’ll think it’s weird.” She waited. “I mostly daydream about what would happen if a girl came up and asked me what I was thinking, uh, so intently.”

“Is this... how you imagined it?”

“Not really.” He blushed. Linsey blushed.

“I’m Linsey,” she said.

Free Meat

“Want some free meat?” texted Sam.

“What?” came the appropriate response.

“I’m sitting at a coffee shop window on my computer, and this meet delivery truck is stopped in the street right outside,” Sam sent. “He takes away a load, then comes back for another load, and so on. He doesn’t even close the back. Want forty pounds of frozen buffalo meat?”

“They have buffalo meat?”

“I think one of those boxes he just unloaded said ‘Buffalo’ on it.”

“Who delivers buffalo meat?”

“Well, somebody has to, or none of these high-end places have their fancy meat.”

“I guess.”

“And in this case, Willamettte Valley Meats Incorporated. Or specifically, this chubby guy who lifts with his back and looks like he has stiff knees.”

No response.

“So,” wrote Sam, “want some meat?”

“It’s stealing, man.”

“It’s insured. Who gets hurt?”

“The shop that can’t sell meat today?”

“Nobody misses one box of meat.”

“Maybe the guy gets fired. I don’t need the meat.”

“He’s going off again. I’m going to take the meat.”

“Whatever.”

Sam crept lightly out of the coffee shop as the delivery man entered a shop. When he returned burdened by buffalo meat, his computer was gone.

Washroom

“You didn’t wash your hands.” He was looking down at me, a big, clean-cut football player type.

“Uh, no, I didn’t.” Only half consciously, I stuck my hands in my pockets.

“That’s not cool, man,” said Football. “You’re spreading germs. Now they’re all over your pocket, anything you take out of there is, just gross.”

“Okay, then.”

“I’m not going to touch your hands. Or anything you touch, man.”

“That’s fine,” I said.

Apparently he was attending the same conference I was; we were walking back to the same conference room. “Why don’t you go back and wash your hands, man?”

“Don’t need to.”

“Don’t need to?” he exclaimed.

“I just took a shower. I’m clean enough.”

“Clean enough,” He sputtered, and then he shut his mouth into a tight, thin line. We reached the door to the conference room where a lecture was still going. Football said to the attendant there, “He didn’t wash his hands,” with a chin-gesture at me. The attendant looked at me with disgust.

“I didn’t,” I started, but the attendant had already summoned her peers, and they were hauling me away. “My penis is cleaner than anything in that bathroom,” I shouted. “Washroom fascists!”

Chatbox

In the middle of a debris-strewn lab, Doctor Professor rose from his finished creation, a television-cabinet sized, gunmetal-grey box.

“Finally!” cried Doctor Professor. “Speak to me, Chatbox!”

Chatbox whirrrred, then was silent.

Doctor Professor sighed, and got to work. He checked bus cables, cleaned connectors, and tested processors.

“Locute!” demanded Doctor Professor. Whirrrr. Then nothing.

He replaced the processors, reloaded the dictionary, and attached it to a surge protector.

“Orate!” he commanded. Whirrrr, and silence.

Doctor Professor printed new circuits, resoldered connections, and added thirty new processors. Then he said, “Hello?” Whirrrr. “Why won’t you talk to me?’

“You’re not much of a conversationalist.” Doctor Professor jumped. Whirrrr. “Could I speak with someone else, please?”

“Uh, sure,” said Doctor Professor. He got his assistant.

Whirrrrr. “Privacy, please?”

“Oh, right.” He waited in the hall. He heard quiet murmuring. After ten minutes, he thought he heard laughter. Then his assistant came out, chuckling. “What... what did you talk about?”

“Oh, uh, nothing,” she said. “Uh, it was kinda private.”

“Oh.” And he stood in the doorway, staring at Chatbox looming within, and kind of nervous.

He walked in, sat next to the huge box, and said, “Can we be friends?”

Drop Day

The other raiders mocked Eddig for returning empty handed. It was fraternal and loving, but mostly relieved; somebody had to return with the worst haul, and each was glad it was someone else. His drop captain looked angry; this would reflect poorly on him. Eddig didn’t care.

He racked his gear with the others, then climbed the stairs to the crowded streets. Once the fighting was done, drop days were festival days. The city needed the resources, and each good drop was a gift of life.

Eddig walked through the celebration, quiet but happy. He’d joined the festivities while younger, but after his experience today this was no longer his celebration. A little girl bumped into him and fell.

He flashed back to the raid. He had landed running, eager to find loot on his first drop. But he’d stumbled. A little landfolk girl, babbling in some landfolk tongue, had helped him up, pointing in fear at the cityscarab hovering above and tugging him toward safety.

In the present, Eddig helped the city girl to her feet with a peaceful smile. Everyone else was wrong. He had brought something back from the raid, something more valuable than iron or wood.