Seven: Morning Commute (07-18-2022)
Part Two
Staring this helpless yet wretched figure in the face rips the man from his detached reality, returning him to a primal state of discomfort and deep-rooted fear of the grotesque and unknown. Judging the man based on his mismatched shoes, shirt of an indescribable shade of yellow, and lack of any visible traces of personal hygiene, the man determined that the person he was know sharing air with was homeless and likely drug addicted. These categories would usually place a person into the good graces of the man, who could rationally deduce their desire to be part of any other demographic, and the economic and social conditions that often force a person into homelessness and perpetuate drug abuse. The homeless man in front of him did not warrant his usual pity-induced sympathies, as his visage, his grim construction, and his horrid smell would rather ignite the man's anger than pull his heart strings.
Hunched over, with the posture of a man much older than he clearly was, and seemingly incapable of maintaining sound foot for more than a second, the man knew his homeless companion was at constant risk of losing his balance and making contact. This tenuous relationship with his upright position, as well as his proximity and constant movement, gripped the mans attention and made impossible the man's preferred nonchalant dead-ahead stare. His eyes were gripped to the animalistic swaying in front of him. The homeless's mans movements alone were a dance incongruous with his frail, stiff frame. What more, his motion made difficult the analysis of his physical features, made more difficult by the man's own motion and the inconsistent lighting on the train car.
The homeless man's skin was dark, although untanned, jaundiced in a even, smooth coat of oil. Scabs and lesions covered his legs, and seemed to wash about as though they were barnacles on a sailboat. Dried, crusted pus and blood connected these mountains of laceration into a drooping image of human suffering in the form of a willow tree. At each joint, where the lesions faded away, was a desert of skin, barely connected to the fascia below, so pale with desiccation it created nodes of contrast that facilitated the brain's perception of the homeless man's uncoordinated, random motion against the train's lurching and sway. The man thought briefly of an anecdote about pop sensation Michael Jackson using white tap on his fingers to allow distant audience members to easily follow his dancing. The thought of Jackson's late-in-life post-surgery face diverted the man's attention back to the equally ungodly construction in front of him.
The homeless man's face, aged beyond it years, wrinkled and smoothed, did little to hide the fact that he was possibly quite attractive at some stage in his life. Good bone structure, clear eyes, and a strong hairline, even despite his many years of narcotic use, were apparent through skin and decay better fitting a corpse. The man could not understand this incongruity either, he himself was fairly attractive, and of average build, but never had immense success socially because of his appearance. To him, the state of physical attractiveness was an unachievable position, and one that would grant immediate ease in all things. Business meetings with an attractive presenter are always more engaging. How could someone with the perfect physiological dice roll resort to drug use?
A sudden gust of air from an entitled passenger passing from train car to train car introduced the man to his homeless compadre's personal scent. Although many highly sought after vintage colognes are manufactured by way of whale-intestine excretions, the homeless man's digestive odor made apparent the rotting aspects of his body, and conjured thoughts of the horrible Petri dish in his stomach and internal organs, and what new species of microorganism may be present inside him. There was a note of industrial cleaner in his smell, no doubt a by-product of drug use.
Despite watching this sad person for nearly a whole minute, the homeless man never noticed the man's horrified glaring. The train's automated message declared it was now stopping at his final destination, and he sidestepped the homeless man. As he passed through the exit turnstiles, returned once more to the surface, to sunlight and fresh air, the thought of the ghastly carnival present in the subterranean world of his commute faded. He could smell fresh brewed coffee from the fancy, high-price coffee shop he often visited, but today he saved a few bucks by bringing from home. The streets in this historic and hip neighborhood were cobble stone, slowing cars to a crawl and replacing the drone of tire-on-asphalt with a soft patter.
The man arrived at the door of his office building. As he punched in the entry code, his time as a commuter ended for the day. In eight hours, he would do the same in reverse, but the late afternoon often filtered out the homeless and despondent. Rowdy children, so rowdy they were often criminal, fresh out of school and unchaperoned by absent parents, were a concern, but a concern for later. Such is the routine of a commuter. Contained within are the true barriers to expanding transit options, to developing walkable neighborhoods, and to evening the social and economic divides that plague this country.