Northeast Corridor
November 15, 2011
He awoke to a phone. Slowly, groggily. The ring was meant to sound like the bells inside an old rotary phone, but they weren’t as substantial. They were thin and flimsy, barely enough to top the heaviness of his sleep. He noted the tone with nostalgia. Then he was mildly awake, his brain moving to some other time.
He brushed his teeth, remotely, dizzily, making a note inside his thoughts not to forget to bring his metallic dental pick. The dental pick was not part of his tool kit, but it would be useful.
They say the most effective way to get attention is to yell “fire!” if you want someone to help you. A passerby, that is. He wanted to tell that to his daughter before she went to school today. She had turned thirteen, and he wanted her to know that people would be more inclined to help her, or at least stop what they were doing, if it was possible their own lives were in danger. He had to get to work, according to his phone.
So he went. He went scraping and peeling. Not paint, but he treated it like paint. He put on his thick plasticine gloves, to protect the pores in his hands; he put on his mask to protect himself from the smell, which would remind anyone of death. So he went, about maneuvering his industrial-strength tongs. All the while, he imagined it was nothing more than cleaning up after a barbecue.
Clickity- Clackety. “It was pretty messy, yeah. But…”. A voice trailed off under the sound of a keyboard. The trains weren’t delayed. She stood reading her book, until a man brushed past her, bumping her shoulder. Looking up, she noticed everyone rushing towards the same little doorway. Where is everyone going?
Finally she sat down, but the chatter of Conversations to People Not Present never receded into white noise. She heard a man giving his opinion on the upcoming election to his invisible, opinionless friend. She heard the woman behind her asking an unseen babysitter to please not give the child gummy vitamins so late at night. There was the voice of another man she couldn’t place, as loud and clear as if he were addressing her directly. He might have been talking to the woman with the babysitter, the two talking over each other as if in an argument about entirely different subjects. He wasn’t shouting, but he was angry and wanting that other someone to Listen Carefully. You gotta talk quick, Babe, or I’m gonna lose ya. Everyone loves the holidays; everyone hates the holidays.
The man next to her was from South Africa, she guessed. He wasn’t distinct looking, but when he finally spoke, she was happy to recognize his accent and have him look her in the eye.
The train chugged along, over God knows what. She stood up, nearly falling over as she said goodbye to the South African she would never see again. She tossed her paper coffee cup into the trash.
Nearly everything is disposable.
“Nearly everything is disposable,” including most of what we say to each other?
Sad, but true. And yet so oftentimes it is hard to say something – anything – meaningful. And most of us feel uncomfortable just listening, and not participating. Hey, maybe that’s where Twitter comes from!
I like the the way you subtly linked the ‘clickety clackety’ of a keyoard with the idea of travelling on a train. Reminds me of some ‘train song’ lyrics:
“Mothers with their babes asleep, are rockin’ to the gentle beat,
and the rhyhm of the rails is all they feel.”
Know the song, and songwriter?
“Nearly everything is disposable,” not memories ..though everything else is
Sad but true. The very flesh and bones that our consciousness dwells in is disposable. We all have our morning routine, the customary course of procedure no matter how diverse.
Why the very computor that I sit at “clickity clackety” And bang this post out will eventually end up in the recycle bin. Too quote a very good peice of literature “from dust we came,to dust we shall return”.
Although I would never instruct my girls to yell fire unless theres a fire. If the girls need help, screem help and if necessary fight for your life.
Didnt lie to them and tell them that theres a santa claus or easter bunny.
Even much of the interpersonal networking that we do from day to day ends up in the recyle bin in time. But Julia, I truely feel that theres one thing thats not disposable. I’ll get back to ya in awhile. May the rest of your week go well, And have a safe weekend.
Your short piece almost a year ago is the reason I started following your blog and while a little sad to see you take so long to write again, I’m ecstatic right now.
I recall liking ‘Madness’, yet I adored “I am not that I am.” I’m starting to understand your style now, for better or to your chagrin.
What I like about the story before me is the break from the one story to an entirely different one, “Clickity- Clackety”. It’s a fantastic transition, but what is the transition? I see two separate stories and yet I am not convinced that they work well together. xo
An interesting wee piece of writing that got me thinking which is the true power of the written word. I do feel it flows well bar a hiccup that occurs when we change perspective from male to female. I think refocusing the jump by continuing with ‘she’ immediately following ‘Clickity- Clackety’ would have smoothed things and maintained the fluidity of the passage with greater effect.
Hope I’ve not offended as I know writing is hard and harder still is allowing it it be read by the eyes of others.
I’d enjoyed reading this, Julia.
Excuse me, for saying so…but this is an interesting bit of prose.
I am interested in your character who wants someone else to Listen Carefully. Mind if I add a few ideas to your story? Take them or leave them.
I would imagine your character doesn’t really respond well to time pressure, and probably prefers brief, clear, honest, to-the-point writing, esp. via email…even if that is not what he’s known for.
I get the sense that he is much safer than one might initially think. He is in a much better position than his adversaries/others–he’s in a secure location.
He’s actually very nice and open to talking to strangers, even those who may have hurt him. He does get angry, but can also fake anger. He is a nice person and many things presented as “facts” are actually what scholars refer to as fabrications or “lies.”
One of the only things he is really, really sick of is cryptic communication. He may have accidentally invented something in college that was stolen by adversaries, developed into a way to be mean to people, and then finally (future-tense) got dealt with properly.
He likes to think win-win, tries to be ethical, and wants himself and others to be on the right side of history.
Let me know if you want to hear more.
This week’s Economist opens with a two-page ad, Angelina Jolie sitting on a rickety-looking skiff floating over a lush pond somewhere in Cambodia. Mountain in the background. Hair and makeup. She’s looking away from the camera and there’s a Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder. The caption: “A single journey can change the course of a life.” The closing article is the obituary of Joe Frazier. Smokin Joe. There’s a photo of him clobbering Ali with his left hook. And, damn. Even if you’re Ali’s biggest fan ever, you can’t come away without some respect for the guy.
Everyone else’s life stays just beyond our full grasp. Thankfully. If there were no mysteries, no one would have a sense of irony. What fun would that be?
Chesterton wrote “I don’t deny that there should be priests to
remind men that they will die one day. I only say that at certain strange epochs it is necessary to have other kinds of priests, called poets, to remind men that they are not dead yet”
Thanks for that reminder. Brilliant piece. In less than a page you leave us with more questions than answers again. I’m not quite sure how you do that so well, especially the segway, but I find myself having to go back and read some of your writings over and over again to pick up the nuances, inuendoes, tones and meaning. Then I read it again and see some other angle.
Andrew
You’re right. Everything is disposable, including our relationships. Sad, but true. Oh well. There’s other fish in the sea. Happy Thanksgiving, Julia.
All this scraping and peeling can get a fella down, you know? What is it that we leave behind, anyway?
Late to the dance again…apologies, J. Unlike Tracy, I think the stories are related, but left unconnected here and that there is a chance that you will develop further to show that this is father and daughter, displaced, he wanting to have the communication with her but unable to, she craving it and finding only fleeting glimpses of it with a diffident man (of a different color?) whose demeanor belies the “disposability” of their brief encounter. That memory, which is probably one of your own, is (as Sanjeet noted) clearly not something that one wishes to discard. How to reach out without yelling “Fire!”?
This NYTimes article made me think of your story. Made me realize that by the simple act of you telling it, the events that transpire, are magically transformed from disposable to meaningful.
Quote from the article, “It struck me as I listened to those two men that a truer nomination for our species than Homo sapiens might be Homo narrans, the storytelling person. What differentiates us from animals is the fact that we can listen to other people’s dreams, fears, joys, sorrows, desires and defeats — and they in turn can listen to ours.”
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/11/opinion/sunday/in-africa-the-art-of-listening.html
Interesting.
Is it a body he is scaping off the rails?
A jumper in front of a train? I dont know if that is what you are implying or are you saying that even our lives are so disposable?
As to disposable issues, there is a Indian business man who is making eatable bowls and spoons for the meals that he sells. It seems to be a good way of reducing the waste of a takeaway meal.
As to the rest, yes, there is too many items that are considered disposable and that does have a negative impact, going back to my questions. It could be that being so casual about things also translates into our own lives and how we think about others and subsequently treat them.
Relationships for example, they seem so fleeting nowdays, started and disposed off so quickly. Though thats another topic.
Though, how long do you think you will focus on short stories before you try writing a book? Maybe you could mix your photos with your short stories and tell a story that has a visual effect as well as the words.
Maybe even do it on this blog as it allows you to start, continue and finish a story. Plus on here you already have a captive supportive audience who will be more kind in thier criticisms.
Though you may see that as a negative in that they wont be honest in thier assesment of your writings in case it offends you.
As I said to another writer recently, “I love revisiting posts by good writers.” I really adore your writing, but I am surprised that not a lot of comments have been posted for this one – good or bad. You’ve written a good story. I may not think that the two stories match, yet I continue to enjoy your style.
I miss reading your blogs, Julia. In addition to being a great actress, you’re also a very talented writer. I loved your guest spot on Dexter. Good luck in your new series Midnight Sun.