The Earlham Road Project

Fiction, collaboration, disgust

Monday, September 20, 2004

Sequence by Kenny Stetson

The beginning of the end. Shorter than expected. The train slowly screeched to a stop at the far end of the sweltering platform. Clearly a nuisance – running to reach the end of an overdue train, not only mispositioned, but also painfully expensive to ride on.

Remember to buy a horse.

No tickets, no fuel, just hay and water.

It was even hotter inside. I wobbled down the grimy aisle as the train accelerated. Since most of the dual seats – foul, narrow and facing each other – inside the car were already occupied with at least two creatures, and although I dislike sitting directly opposite anonymous persons, I randomly dropped down when a black lady left her seat and transferred down the aisle to another seat. A chance to rest my heavy head and read the Sports section. Armstrong senses sixth Tour victory. Again!

She made no effort to conceal her stare. Rather unusual for these typical train situations. Then focussing on the floor for 30 seconds, passive, like an ordinary person on a train, perhaps examining the lower section of the seat, the triangular region between the wall and the floor. Now she gradually leaned forward to look at exactly what I was reading.

I held her glance. She smiled an insane smile. Her wet gums were glistening in the sunlight. So my dark glasses had not fulfilled their function as a curtain between me and the outside world.

‘This is Lance Armstrong’ I said, confidently pointing at the picture in the paper. 'Do you follow the bike races?’

Her expression was now slightly confused. ‘No— I ride a bike sometimes, but watching other people cycling on TV...’

She stared, looking worried.

I looked out of the window: silver wing, blue sky, white clouds. Everything was normal.

‘Did you see that ruined castle just there?’

‘What, oh— no, which castle?’

‘I think we just passed it on this side. It’s beautiful, must be at least
500 years old.’

She gazed out through the injured windowpane.

‘Where are you heading?’ I asked after a while.

‘Cologne’

‘Are you visiting somebody?’

In a flash, her upper lip drew back up towards her nose, exposing a row of yellowed teeth and pink gums.

‘No—.’

‘What are doing there?’

She smiled.

‘That really is a nice dress you’re wearing...’

‘It’s a skirt!’

‘A skirt, of course, sorry.’

I resigned and looked back out of the window, hoping she would get off at the next stop.

‘How can you be so— hard-hearted?’ she demanded.

I was amazed, how could she say such a thing?

‘I am not hard-hearted, not at all, I am highly compassionate.’

The light ocean of my childhood.

‘What do you want me to own up to?’

It could no longer be kept a secret. I was drinking continuously more. At all times of the day. Inebriated by 4:30 pm in the afternoon, wandering along the faculty corridors.

Always doing my best to make conversation. My interest has always remained alive. It isn’t this country’s fault that I feel alien. I grew up within Europe’s jugular vein, dreaming about my own demise. Packed up, with a bottle of wine in hand. Having wanted to open a fresh Merlot, but crumpled beforehand.

Departed.

Now, as the stones rattled among my ankles, we held hands and looked out to sea. See, the child I once was.