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Revealing All Your
Dirty Little Secrets

available for only $1995 		Revealing all your Dirty Little Secrets, the 2007 Down in the Dirt collection book
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Rising to the Surface

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S&M

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or a hardcover: order ISBN# book 		S&M front cover, 2007

This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Down in the Dirt v051

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Dual
of Janet Kuypers poetry converted to prose, based on 1990s chapbooks
from GAD Publishing Company of Kuypers: “Drop.” and “Roll.”
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 Dual

this is my burden

Janet Kuypers

    I managed to find a seat on the el train, for once, I was going to work early enough so that it wasn’t very crowded. And the ride was the same as the el train always is: some people reading a paper, a woman putting on her make-up, most just staring out the window at the aging, rattling tracks, the smattering of gang graffiti on the nearby buildings. Ordinary day in Chicago, slightly overcast. I wear my sunglasses just to avoid eye contact with other train members. We all know this code: we know we have to somehow keep our sense of personal space, our sense of selves.
    I hear a bit of a scuffle behind me, more the moving of people than an argument; nothing to ponder over. Then a gunshot rings out. I turn around and catch a glimpse of two men struggling. Instantly I duck down, as most others do.
    I crawl down to the floor in front of my seat, trying to protect myself, having no idea who has the gun or which direction the gun is pointing. I don’t even know if this seat in front of me could protect me from a bullet. There are screams everywhere; the gun occasionally going off. I try to look to see if anyone was shot, but am afraid of being in the line of fire. Another few men jump in the fight, in an effort to stop the gunman. Why is this happening? Was it an agrument, or just someone on a shooting spree?
    The el comes to a screeching halt at a stop, and now comes the question: do we make a run for it, and risk death, or will the gunman try to escape out the doors? The train ride to here seemed an eternity, and now none of us even knows if we should try to get off the train.
    The doors don’t open.
    I hear a few gunshots; two men scream. The doors finally open. A barrage of policemen cover the doorways. I could glance up and see them. Many more screams. They don’t seem to end. The policemen rush the gunman, shoot him before he could shoot anybody else. It was over.
    The next two hours were spent on the train and platform answering questions. I had nothing to offer them; I barely saw what happened. They informed me that it was not an argument but a man trying to stop a man about to go on a shooting spree. Then the man that survived the struggle walked up to me, and when no one was listenening told me that the gunman walked down the aisle, stopped four chairs short of mine, and aimed for my head. That was when he jumped up to stop him.
    That man was out to kill me.
    But I’ve never met him before, I said, and the man said he didn’t need to know my reply, just wanted to let me know why all this happened.
    This man’s intentions were to kill me. But why? Did he think I was someone else?
    And now I think of this every day, the answers still not coming to me. And I still have this burden to carry with me, that all these people died, all of these people witnessed this event, and in a way I couldn’t explain or justify, it was all because of me.
    And this is my burden. All this pain. All this guilt. All these unanswered questions.












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