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An Unfinished Trip

Nicholas Manjerovic

    He plopped down and opened his book. Another tough day at the office, that internet doesn’t read itself. He pulled his sunglasses up, dropped his head, and began to read.
    “Doors Closing,” the automated voice announced.
    “Did you hear they’re startin’ that thing at the stad’m again,” a young black kid with awful teeth, about 19, asked another across the aisle.
    “Nah, whatchu mean,” the other kid responded dressed in a getup that popped with color.
    “That job thing, you know, like last summ’r, for the Indians,” the first one prodded.
    “Oh yeah, we should do that.” And that was all they said. But their presence remained noticeable throughout the trip because they smelled. There isn’t really a name for what they smelled like, but it broke the peace.
    Just as the door closed, a young black girl snuck through sideways. He picked up his eyes from his book just a bit as not to be noticed, but he was too late to check her out. He only saw two young calves that shined in beige sandals that held large beige silk flowers, and returned to his book.
    “A quick swim and then home by six,” he thought “plenty of time to write something before Kate gets home.”
    The first stop came. A white woman stepped onto the train with a small Asian boy clutched to her chest. This was common; he had seen her most days on his way home. Today, however, he noticed a large tattoo that seemed to stretch across her entire back.
    “That’s new,” he thought before returning to his book.
    The ride unfolded like usual. Other than him and the lady, there were no other white people aboard. He thought this odd, everyday. He never had a problems with another rider and no one ever approached him in any sort of negative way, but still, he found it odd.
    In his life outside the train, he would tell people about how he was the only white guy on the whole train. He thought it was an interesting observation point that might be met with simple “how bout thats” or “oh that’s neats.” Just something to talk about. Most, however, would nod their heads as if this odd feeling was some sort of normal thing that all white people felt. Some would shift their eyes and look at him crookedly; he decided these were the types that thought any mention of race by a nonminority that wasn’t actively condemning racism, was racist. Neither of these reactions were what he expected or wanted so he stopped mentioning this.
    Before his stop, a sharp stomach pain hit his gut. He rearranged himself in the seat, hoping it was some sort of cramp. To no avail, however, his discomfort only grew. A decision was needed fast, either he exited at this stop and went to the gym, or he continued to the next and went home.
    “I only worked out one day this week, and Friday’s a holiday, so that’s out. I really don’t wanna go to the gym, but that’s no excuse, I’m here, I got my stuff, there’s no reason not to. Does this hurt for real or am I thinking it hurts so I don’t have to go?”
    He tried again to get comfortable, nothing worked. He turned back to his book and continued on.
    “She told me I was crazy” a voice perked up behind him. “Yeah, the bitch said I was crazy.” He turned over his left shoulder and saw that it was the black girl with the shiny legs. She was about 16, pretty, and on her cell phone.
    “So we went and saws the social worker, so my moms can get us back. And my dad and sister and mom and the social worker were there. She said she would like to get me a psychiatrist.” There was a break, but it was short, whoever was on the other end of the line had few words to say, probably the equivalent of a nod.
    “Yea, she said that I have some issues that I needed to work through ÉwhatÉ yeah, all white like thatÉsome issues I need to work through,” she continued.
    Meanwhile, his stop was coming up. “A quick walk home, doesn’t look like rain, and then I can sit down and get this story out before I forget it,” he thought. “What, what is she saying,” his train of thought broken, “She aint crazy. Aint crazy? Well, this something I gotta hear.”
    “Yeah, yeah I told her that I wasn’t crazy and didn’t need no psychiatrist, I aint got no felonies, I aint got no babies, there aint nothin’ wrong wit me. I don’t need no therapy.” Her speech had been rehearsed; she had said these things before.
    “Social worker? Moms lost custody? God knows what else. If anybody needs therapy, it’s this girl. How can anyone today still think that only crazy people go to therapy? Someone should explain that to her. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m supposed to say something. Maybe I should say I go to therapy. Yeah, yeah it could be something simple like, ‘Goin to therapy doesn’t mean your crazy, I go.’ Yeah, maybe I’m supposed do that, I mean, I was planning on the gym all day until like right now. This is just too perfect,” he thought.
    He stood up. He slung his bag onto his shoulder. He gripped the overhead bar, and then regripped it. “Ok, Im gonna say something. And if she don’t like it, then what did I lose?”
    His stop had arrived. He turned to the exit near her, and got her attention with his eyes. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and only a sigh left it. He dropped his sunglasses over his eyes and walked on by.
    He stepped off the train and went home.

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