Basically, every time the Internet is slow or a phone call drops I feel that I am the victim of a conspiracy.
Basically, every time the Internet is slow or a phone call drops I feel that I am the victim of a conspiracy.
I do not like to run for trains but it was right there, I could see it, so I scampered. I swiped my card and the turnstile told me to “please swipe again,” and if turnstiles could laugh they would laugh like MWAHAHAHA. I watched the train doors close and I saw the empty seat where I could have been sitting speed past. A woman with a guitar was singing, really going for it on the high notes. She was trying to own the echoes on the platform. Another train came a few minutes later.
Look for my book early next year from Tiny Hardcore Press. It’s a collection of things that might be stories or maybe they are something else, but there are definitely words involved. Please tell me what to call this thing. Leave suggestions in the comments. The worse the title, the better. Ridiculous blurbs are also welcome.
~O~
There were a lot of women in the boxing gym and a couple of them could probably knock me out. Maybe all of them. No, there was one I would beat the shit out of for sure. I want to fight her.
I jumped rope on one foot and switched to the other foot. I did this a few times without tangling the rope around my ankles. Other times I tangled the rope around my ankles. Why do kids think jumping rope is for girls?
He said: “Don’t lean in, just use your upper body, turn.”
He said: “Don’t lift your back foot up when you punch.”
Jab cross jab cross jab cross hook jab jab cross jab cross hook jab jab cross hook.
He said: “Hit this big black bag and pretend it’s that guy.” He pointed to the big black conditioning coach.
He said: “Move forward when you jab.”
I threw a cross and missed the center of the big black bag and rolled my wrist. It hurt. I thought it might have been sprained. I kept punching and concentrated on my aim and kept my wrist locked. My fist went a little numb but it was okay when I took the glove off later.
He said: “Hit this bag.” It was a small, round ball attached to the ceiling and the floor with elastic bands. “It’s all about timing, just like life.” Once I hit it and sent it bobbing all over the place, I could not hit it again unless I held out the glove and stopped it.
He said: “That kid is named Rocket.” He pointed to a little kid hanging out by a window. “Can you believe that? What kind of name is Rocket? That’s his real name.” I said he might be named after a famous baseball player who did steroids. I said I knew a kid named Zap. Real birth-certificate name. He asked a guy on a treadmill: “Have you ever heard of a kid named Zap? Real birth-certificate name?”
I stepped through the ropes and bounced around in the ring with another guy with pads on his hands. He called out combinations and I hit the pads. I missed once and almost hit him in the face.
He said: “Keep your elbows in.”
He said: “Breathe when you punch.”
There is a pushup variation that I find almost impossible. You start on your forearms, in a flat pushup position off the ground and launch into a pushup from there, then lower one forearm at a time flat again. It could not do more than two in a row.
Bicycle crunches make me fart.
The store across the street sells coconut water. I chugged a bottle afterward. It has potassium and is the only natural substance that can be injected into your bloodstream safely. It was cold and felt slick going down my throat.
An old lady with a bunch of bags got on the train. It was crowded. There was a seat between me and this dude with a Yankees cap. He was sitting in that leg-spread-wide way that is a dare to anyone who wants to sit down. I said to her, loudly enough for him to hear, “Would you like to sit down?” I pointed at the open seat between us. The guy did not move his legs and she said, “Oh, it’s okay,” and I said, “Are you sure?” and she said, “Is there room?” and I said, “Yeah,” and scrunched my shoulders in and made myself as small as I could, pressing against the steel wall, and she slid in and the guy did not move and I had to lean forward to finish typing this and it made my neck and back hurt. He got off a couple stops later and a little dude took his seat and it was a bit better but was still a squeeze.
The train was fucked and crowded the whole way home, and hot, and I bet I smelled and I bet people thought: that guy smells.
The thing about the old lady: If that empty seat had not been there I would not have stood up and given her mine. Luckily, I was able to deflect whatever bad feelings I have about myself for that onto the guy who would not move his legs. I should thank him for giving me someone to feel superior to.
Crap. Another old lady is standing in front of me. She is watching me type. I am not giving her my seat.
~O~
See, the neighbors upstairs have a pet kleidsdale, er, chleidsdale, er, (Internet search: chlydesdale) clydesdale. I think their horse wears high heels and wakes up to an alarm about a half hour before mine and it clomps around my ceiling for quite a while and I really do not even need to set my alarm any more, see?
A woman was singing and playing the guitar on my subway platform. She is new. She is a nice addition to the mornings. She strummed and sang like she was sitting at campfire during the sixties. Before she arrived the only sounds were the endless off-beat beeps of the turnstile and people chatting and trains grumbling, indecipherable announcements over a mysterious speaker. Now there is also music and the sound of coins hitting her guitar case. Dollar bills do not make much sound when people toss those. (When I see a five-dollar bill in there I wonder if the person took change back or if the singer planted it.) She only sings three songs. “Haleluyeah,” er, (Internet search: Haleluyeah) “Hallelujah,” “Only Fools Rush In,” and “Empire State of Mind” (let’s hear it for just the chorus). I think she only sings those three songs because if the trains are on time you will not hear the whole loop. The trains are rarely on time.
At lunch I took a piss. It was very dark, like an IPA. I have been ill. A cold I cannot beat. I never understood why old men shake their dicks so long at urinals. Now I do. And not because I have a cold.
This dude was sleeping the whole train ride home after work and at his stop his eyes snapped open, no conductor’s announcement or anything, and he grabbed his bag and walked off like the ceiling of his skull was being stomped on by a clydesdale.
It is hard not to love subway performers unless they make it easy. Terrible boom box with blown speakers, loud clapping when people (me) were tired after long days with boring tasks. People (me) were trying to read. But we (I) had to stop everything so they could do a couple back flips and irritate the crap out of us (me). Seen this same act too many times. Save it for the evenings, men. “Show you’re love, show your support. We’re not robbing or killing.” Oh, right. Those are the only other options. Never mind.
I walked home during a downpour, a few blocks. No umbrella. I hate umbrellas. I bought one the other day for a few bucks at a bodega because I was caught in a drizzle and it was cold and I did not have a hoodie or a hat. The umbrella did not cost that much. Less than a good IPA. I opened the umbrella and a few seconds later a slight breeze destroyed it. It did the reverse-umbrella thing and all the metal parts snapped at the joints and the handle broke and it fell to the ground in pieces, a dying robot spider kite, and I got wet. Then I caught a cold. But that is not why I hate umbrellas.
Street lights look better streaked across ripple-wet sidewalks. If you look close, heavy drops explode on asphalt, moon popcorn craters. Remember the time we rode bikes in the park and a storm chased us? The time we walked across the bridge and there were flowers for someone who jumped? The time we saw a deer run down a busy city street? The other time? There were crumbs of Pringles on my chest, many, as I wrote this even though I had been eating grapes and there is not such a thing as a grape crumb, is there?
Before I wrote this I was reading stories written by people who hope to be accepted to a very fine literary magazine but some of the authors were those subway performers. I would reject this story, too, my story, yet someone trusts me with slush. I should be trusted with rain, also, but not with Pringles.
Thanks for listening with your eyes. And, hey, enough about me. Let’s talk about you and all the wonderful things you think about me.
~O~
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