Alississippi

“My Friend”

She’s quirky and she’s funny
With ideas always flowing
Her clothes are always stylish
Her persona easy-going

Her boots are always dancing
To the beat of their own drum
And when she doesn’t know the lyrics
She’s content to simply hum

Her car is always messy
Because it’s full of treasures
Things don’t need to be so fancy
She’s about the simple pleasures

She’s cooler than she realizes
She’s more brilliant than she knows
And in her life, I can’t wait to see

Exactly where she goes

I was sitting alone at the Iron Skillet finishing up my omelet when the guy a couple seats down dropped his pack of Marlboros Reds by my feet. I looked down to pick them up, but before I had the chance this guy was saying in a rural accent which wasn’t quite western, but definitely not southern, “Hey! Get me those cigarettes. ‘Cause, here’s the thing, if I get up–I’m gonna kick you. So, pass me those cigarettes–or you’re gonna get kicked.”
I got him the cigarettes and mumbled, “You’re an asshole.”

I guess he must have heard me, because next thing I know he’s jumping off his barstool, wide-eyed and nostrils flaring–the man was literally launching towards me! He snatched the cigarettes out of my hand and with a finger pointing 7 inches from my face, he shouted, “No, YOU have an asshole!”

It was like someone yelled, “freeze!”
–Because we froze.
That guy just yelled at me, that I have an asshole. My pride fell like marbles to the floor, my hands went numb, and my mind felt like I swallowed funny; all my brain activity was choking and coughing on a miscalculated gulp.

It was undeniable that the strange man and I were caught in a net of awkwardness, but since he had a beard, plaid shirt, and steel-toed boots, he was able to calmly sit back in his stool like nothing happened. He asked the waitress for more coffee, lit his cigarette, and snorted like a rude person.

However, I sat back in my chair like a stunned 2nd grader told to sit on the steps at reccess. I’m certain my face was red and I could feel my lips uncontrollably quivering in that sort of half-frown. I was really shocked and totally embarrassed, but since I hadn’t paid for my coffee and omelet I just had to sit there, completely out of my element in a truck-stop, right beside what I now know to describe as the scariest man alive.

As we get older, we become weaker, and the more baggage we carry just seems unnecessary, but we must bring all these things we don’t need, wishing we packed a little lighter.

Life is hard; the feeling of impatience is like staring at the countdown on a microwave clock.

Everyday is full of new realizations; each ideal sparks deeper than the last, but two at once can ignite a fire of thoughts and it takes every mental restraint to calm my nervous mind.

I self medicate with crossword puzzles.

This one time I went to the chiropractor, and he was like the “cool” chiropractor.  His wife was a Rockett, he used slang, and he brought his Pug to office–he was cool.  Well, before I went to see my “cool chiropractor” I had read this beauty magazine that lead me to put chapsick on my eyebrows.  As everyone knows, you lie face down on that chiropractor table with the roll of fresh paper the consistency of those disposable public toilet seat covers.  Well, after my adjustment, I stood up and there were 2 giant grease marks where my eyebrows had been.  It was a really unexpected embarrassment that I wish I could have explained, but the whole thing was a little too bizarre.  Then again, maybe he would have understood.  He was that sort of “understanding, cool chiropractor.”  I bet I’m not the first person to put chapstick on my eyebrows before going in for a spinal adjustment.

I am sitting backwards on a forward moving train.  I’m speeding down a railway through new jersey cities and spaced-out land; passing by a lot of cars, some trucks, and all those forward moving people.  Half an-hour ago, when I walked onto this train, I chose to flip the back of my seat, because it seemed like a nice idea–especially since the train was not full of passengers.  I knew if ever wanted to sit the wrong way in my seat, now was the time.

Turns out, sitting backwards on a train feels so different, so strange. It’s a feeling like everyone on board might actually be going back in time; but only the passengers who sit that way go back in time, if you sit forwards you won’t, and the people sitting backwards are not allowed to tell the people sitting forwards about the time traveling secret; otherwise, everyone would be talking and flipping the seats and the conductors would have a fit, because it would make their job so much harder.
Today I am only riding with 6 other people in my train car and this one guy, sitting 3 seats ahead of me, is making me curious.  He seems to be about 24 or 29 years-old and something tells me he is either a little bit sleepy or a very kind business man, wearing business glasses and reading a business paper–in only his undershirt and pants.

He makes me curious because, two minutes after leaving Penn Station he’s jumping out of his seat like a clutzy mess, and flipping the back of it specifically to avoid sitting backwards on the train.  I wished to know why he cared so much–it seems more awkward to be the one person facing forward in a row of seats facing backwards.
Now he is directly in front of me.  I can really see him now, so I know he isn’t tired, he’s kind. Sometimes our eyes meet in the window reflection and I want to go sit closely beside him. Tipping my knees against his and resting my head on his shoulder I speak softly into his ear, “Excuse me sir, why did you flip your seat so suddenly?”
He doesn’t mind that we don’t know each other from ever before, “I didn’t want to be facing backwards while this train moves forwards.”
He places his hand comfortably on my knee and I get real close to his ear and whisper so the conductors don’t know what I am doing the passangers can’t tell what I am saying, “But if you put your seat back how it was, it feels like you’re back in time.” I look at him and wait for his reaction.
“I know,” he says.
“You do?” I say.
“Yes,” he says.
“Oh,” I say.
After a quiet minute, I start trying to find the right words so I can ask the kind business man beside me, why he wouldn’t want to travel back in time, but he cuts me off, “–I don’t need to go back in time, I’ve been there already, I’m happy reading my paper.”
“Oh, okay. Well, do you really think that’s better?” I sincerely want to know.                                   “I think so,” he says.
I smile at him,”Well, in that case, may I do your crossword?”
He smiles, handing me the crossword from his business paper, and I thank him.
Then, just before getting up, I say, “May I ask you something else? Why are you just wearing that undershirt?”
He smiles, kisses me kindly on the forehead, and says, “It’s a long story.”
I smile at him and thank him again for the crossword, walk back to my seat, and just before sitting down I flip it so I’m not going back in time–just back to Princeton Junction.