Another Train

Even famous Pokemon trainers need to take the train. At least, that’s what he told himself every time he was on one. He thought he should have a private car, but the championship private circuit wouldn’t pay for more than the train. It made him angry. He had the most powerful Pokemon the world had ever seen, and here he was, on the train with all these normal people!

He called forth two Pokemon: floating psyduck and bulbasaur. This would give him a little more of the ease due his expertise. He let them clear some space among the other passengers, and once he had his choice of seat, he set them to training.

He trained his Pokemon hard. No pulling blows, no holding back, and no mercy when one was wounded. They had to take their lumps if they were going to overcome them. That’s how he had learned, when he was young. That was the way to get tough enough for a world that didn’t care about you.

Superman called out for him to stop, but then Superman’s Dad made him guard the jail. The Pokemon trainer just smiled. Even Superman couldn’t stop him from being the best.

Super Train

Superman was riding the train. There were bad guys everywhere, and he had to defeat them. But Dad said not to play with the other passengers on the train. He had to wait until they reached day care to play with others.

So he fought monsters no one else could see. There was the Joker! Superman punched him and took him to jail, which was Superman’s seat by Dad. Then he flew down the train car and grabbed Brainiac and flew him to jail. And then he saw a Pokemon trainer hurting Pokemon at the far end of the train, and he flew to rescue them!

He bumped into a person who yelled, and he ran back to Dad. Dad told him he had to guard the prison now or the bad guys would escape. “But the mean Pokemon trainer is over there!”

“You’ll have to stop him later,” said Dad. “If you leave, the bad guys will get out of jail.” So Superman guarded the jail. After a while, Dad leaned over and whispered, “Oh no! They’re escaping!” He pointed at the window behind Superman’s seat.

“I’ll stop them!” said Superman, and he started punching them back into jail.

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!”