The chicken sandwich with heavy mayonnaise that I consumed was delicious. It was Sunday evening and I was waiting to board the 703 train just arriving in Hanford. I do this every Sunday. The ride is generally pleasant and quick, but today God had a different plan. A lady on the interior of the train impatiently waited for the door to open and starting kicking it and yelling at it as if it were a person. When they did open she started yelling at the nearest conductor. Apparently she was unable to exit the train at the previous stop before the doors closed and was demanding a free fare for the next train back. I'll never know how this problem was resolved. I guess I'm okay with that. This is not to say that I didn't think about it a great deal when I sat down. The train was pretty packed but I managed to find a seat at one of those four top tables across from an overweight, middle-aged man. He seemed safe. I generally try to find a seat where it doesn't look as though I will have to converse with anyone. I am American. I'd rather sit and ponder how a conversation between me and the next person might go if we were to actually talk. Like this one time I sat behind this 20-something black man on the train. It was obvious to anyone who had ever been a friend to grass that he was packing something with a mighty punch. I decided that it might be a good idea for him to wrap his green up in a few more baggies as to not alert a conductor of the contents of his luggage. He seemed approachable and I prepared what I might say to him. This preparation took the entire 30 minute train ride. The conversation might have gone like this.
"Hey, that's some pretty good smellin' stuff you got there."
"Aw fo' real dawg, you can smell that?"
"Yeah man. You might wanna throw a few more baggies on it so you don't get caught."
"Aw thanks dawg. Good lookin' out."
I then exit the train and he thinks to himself that I'm a real cool guy. In effect, my confidence is boosted.
Of course I didn't say anything and remained quiet until it was time to get off the train.
But back to this particular Sunday. The one with the lady that was too stupid to get off the train at her stop and the overweight, middle-aged man. That one. He had a green Mead Composition book sitting on the table and I couldn't help but be surprised. First and foremost, I had never seen a green Mead Composition book, I thought that they only came in black. And secondly, I was under the impression that only students needed those books. I quickly concluded that he had had a rough previous 30 years of life and was now getting back on track and going to school. Problem solved. Then I heard a loud squeal. It was the kind of squeal that could only come out of an extremely obese teenage white boy. I wasn't aware at that moment that those squeals would haunt me the entire train ride and that i could possibly become a statistic of the Chantix suicides.
The boy's attire was interesting. He sported a pair of those Interstate jeans that all the cool kids had back in junior high. I figured that the jeans might have been elasticized but was inconclusive due to the quadruple X white t-shirt covering up his waist line. He had a set of kicks from Big-5 presumably, and topped it all off with a camouflage fedora. I had never seen one of those. That and a green mead composition book, what a day.
He wanted everyone on the train to hear him apparently. He was playing Monopoly Family Guy edition with some unassuming little children he had met. The boy was quite the extrovert and found it necessary to alert the kids of all his illnesses. A victim of O.C.D. and A.D.D., he explained, as well as something called O.D.D. I'd never heard of that. His yelling and laughing was constant. He would make a great carny in the future. He was actually perfect for the job and probably destined for it too. And he liked riding on trains. One would assume that you should like that if you aspire to be a carny.
I couldn't help but wonder why he was traveling on the train alone. Fortunately I am blessed with a keen sense of stereotypes and was able to place him in a situation that involved his father being the winner of bi-monthly visits from him. Then my mind briefly went to thoughts of the fire storming of Dresden in Germany during World War II. I had just read Slaughterhouse Five the previous Friday. So it goes.
But back to his father. He was gonna be the next Mick Jagger if that damned record executive would have stayed until the end of his show and heard his band crank out "Ever'bodies gotta Rock". He'll never forgive himself for putting a cover of Heart's "Barracuda" on the set list that night. He thought it would show how diverse his band could really be. Those pipe dreams went up in smoke soon after and he settled into a counter position at the Der Wienerschnitzel when it was still called Der Wienerschnitzel. He still works there but now they just call it Wienerschnitzel. I guess the former name was too confusing. One could easily conclude that his son's weight problem can be directly attributed to chili cheese dogs.
As for his mother. I couldn't really get a clear read just by looking at the kid. I guess it would require a small interview with him. Something that I was not willing to do.
The boisterous young man carried on despite protests from the people sitting across the way. I couldn't handle it anymore and ran to the cover of my ipod. But then I noticed a little kid approach him and inquire about his monopoly game. I paused my ipod. He told him that it was the Family Guy edition and started talking to him. The child was clearly pleased.
And then I realized something. I realized that I envied the overly excited big boy. Here was a boy that was enjoying life. Socializing with any person that he could, getting to know them and making them laugh. He was shameless and it seemed almost virtuous to me. For a moment I wanted to be like him.
But the moment was fleeting and I pushed play on my ipod as he pulled a guitar out of nowhere and started playing it for the children.
