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Johnny Thought

Brett Dixon

    NEXT TRAIN TO ALEWIFE ARRIVES IN FIVE MINUTES. The harsh recording echoed through the subway tunnels and off the concrete walls of the station. Johnny sat on the bench, alone, sipping the tall boy Narragansett he’d bought to treat himself after a fourteen hour work day. It was getting warm but still worth it.
    The sun had been down for some time and the station was empty. All the typical nine-to-fivers had come and gone and were probably arriving home just now to a fancy meal, Johnny thought. He snorted and spit on the ground, barely missing his boot. He checked his phone for any messages. He could have sworn he felt it vibrate. Nothing. He put it back in his pocket. No one knows what it’s like to
really
work anymore, Johnny thought. No one except him. He swigged his beer and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, a sleeve adorned with paint and dirt and sweat—the markings of a man who knows a thing or two, Johnny thought.
    As Johnny peered down the tracks to see if the subway light was visible, a figure emerged in his peripheral. Tall, confident. He wore a fine, navy blue suit and carried a leather briefcase with a few letters inscribed on the handle: STW. Probably his initials. The ego on this guy, Johnny thought.
    The man’s hair was dark and parted to the side, probably with the help of some kind of expensive product. He was clean shaven, not even a hint of five o’clock shadow though it was well past the hour. The man checked the time on his silver wristwatch that glistened in the faint station lights. That hand is probably smooth, Johnny thought. Like he’s never worked a day in his life. No calluses. Nothing.
    Johnny rose from the bench and stood at the edge of the platform, just a few yards away from the man. He noticed the man’s cologne. Citrusy and fresh. Like something a woman would probably wear, he thought. Johnny sipped his beer again, shaking his head. Here’s the kind of guy that has it all, he thought. What a waste. Why even bother? That man has no backbone. No grit. Not like I have, Johnny thought. He thought he felt his phone vibrate again. He pulled it from his pocket. He checked the message he had sent to his daughter, Hanna. Still no response. He closed the phone and put it back in his pocket and swigged his warm beer, glaring at the man. THE NEXT TRAIN TO ALEWIFE IS NOW ARRIVING, the announcement sounded.
    Johnny thought of the empty apartment that awaited him. He thought of the water stained ceiling and the half-drunk sleeve of vodka by the foot of his recliner. He thought of the empty cabinets in his kitchen. It’s these kind of guys that make it so hard for rest of us, Johnny thought. Look at him, waiting to go home to his wife and his kids and his house in the suburbs. Going on vacations to the Bahamas. Taking a break from his big office with his name on the door. He probably has a dime for a secretary. Probably screws her too. That’s what guys like him do. What a scumbag, he thought. He has kids for God’s sake.
    Johnny pounded the last warm sip of his beer and tossed the can out onto the track. The impact sounded like a gunshot. A gun would be nice, Johnny thought.
    The light from the oncoming train illuminated the subway tunnel. Someone should put him in his place. Put a scare into him, Johnny thought. Let him know he’s not fooling anyone.
    Johnny stepped forward and reached out to grab the man’s shoulder, but came away with nothing. The man leapt from the platform, holding on to his briefcase, and was swept away by the front car of the subway. The train came to a screeching halt.
    And then, Johnny was alone again.

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