All He Can Do

The time is 6:33 AM. Groggily, he rubs the crumbs of sleep from his eyes and sets his bare feet on the floor. His closet. A mess, really, compared to his room, although neither are very clean at all. Unconsciously stuffing random clothing and hygiene items into his rather large suitcase, he remembers that this will be a long trip. He will need more than just this. His bedside table is scattered with mementos that bring about nostalgic memories. Some go in the case, some don't. Still half asleep, he decides to finish packing and start getting ready to leave.

The time is 6:55 AM. The train he is supposed to be on leaves the station at 7:10. He’ll have to pick up the pace. A sloppy cup of caffeine and slab of toast in tow, he bounds out of the house. A pause just as the door locks. There’s a feeling of uncertainty settling deep in his chest. “What am I forgetting?” he mutters. Two doors and one hallway later, he’s scanning his bedroom. His brow furrows as he struggles to place what item could be missing from his overfilled suitcase. A photo album sits under his bed, not fully hidden. The way he looks through the images; it’s as if he is remembering them for the first time. Satisfied, he opens his suitcase, tucks the album in, and makes an attempt to close it. The case squeals, and the latch on the right hand side flies loose and lands on his lap. Crestfallen, he tries his best to secure the metal piece back in its spot. The tattered scrap refuses; his efforts go in vain. The time is 7:04 AM. He’ll have to settle for one latch.

Paranoia is the perfect word for the vice that clamps on his heart. The broken suitcase: what if it spills as he runs? He will have a very large mess to clean up. Embarrassment. The train: what if it leaves before he gets to the station? How long until the next? He doesn’t want to have to wait. A full and uncomfortable gulp and a glance at his watch force him to move from a jog to a running pace. 7:07.

Leaving the comfort of his cul-de-sac, he begins to encounter more and more people, each with a different look of confusion on their face. I’m running too fast. I must look like some overzealous freak. A slip in his step. His ankle decides to land too close to the edge of the sidewalk, sending his suitcase swinging across his chest. A group of women yelp and step out of the way as the momentum of the swing sends him toward them. He turns and winces with a fragile “sorry” and continues on his way. Recouping, he adopts an uncomfortable and awkward grip on the case, somewhere between under his arms and in front of him. More bemused glares as the mass of people heading to work thickens. Just let me get to the station. Get me out of this crowd. He was never one for large groups.

He approaches the station at 7:12. The fact that the train is running a few minutes late is sheer luck.

Elbows and shoulders pummel his arms and chest as he plows through the mass, tossing out an apologetic “‘scuse me” and “sorry” along the way. One person’s forearm finds its way to his side and connects abrasively with a tender area. Doubling over, his grip on the case fails and it is sent out into the crowd and to the edge of the platform. The case’s contents are emptied everywhere and his heart stops.

Ignoring the searing pain in his side, he scrambles over to the wreckage. A few pairs of shirts and a hat lie on the steel rails below. Several novels, button-ups, and undergarments are splayed across the platform. And lastly, the silence; the dead, terrorizing silence as he sits phased in the mess he’s created.

The time is 7:14 AM.

All he feels is numb.

Lost.

His mind is empty.

Not even an iota of knowledge of what to do next.

The long, forlorn blare of a horn warns him that the train is approaching. Blood begins to rush to his head, his heart rate returning to its previous state of panic. Arms flailing, he grabs the items nearest to him, then focuses on the essential clothing and hygiene items. The case is nearly full.

A few passersby offer help by picking up the odd sock or toothbrush and handing it to him. Their efforts, although appreciated, are not acknowledged. He is too shattered.

The photo album. Balancing on the cusp of the platform, it catches his eye. There’s a swell in his heart as some hope might still remain. That same feeling of hope leaves as quickly as it comes. The album is sparse; a lot of the film sheets lie scattered on the cold surface of the tracks. Looking through what is left, there are only a few snapshots of him with his family, his boyfriend, and some friends. The rest are gone.

First, there’s another disruptive scream from the horn of the train. Then, the strong gust of wind as the locomotive comes to a stop at the station with a squeal. Polaroid squares blow everywhere; whatever was lost to the tracks is no more.

Another solemn note emits from the train as he finishes packing what he can.

There would be no point in remaining on his knees next to his suitcase while the others board the train. He knows that. All he can possibly do now is grab the handle of the case, walk up those steps, and find a seat. And that’s what he does. There’s an empty seat somewhere in the back of the train car.

The film of grime over the glass of the window does not permit much vision, but it is perfectly easy for him to remember exactly what had happened at the station. The train sighs with relief, and lurches forward pulling along its passengers with it. Gazing out through the window, the platform and the mess shrink behind him.