“Just ask for a seat. I read a study on this, chances are you'll get it. Or you won't, and then you can mock me for it. Seems like a win-win situation for you.”
“She's really hot, and she has this convenient lack of personality that really soothes any issues I might have with abusing her dipsomania.”
“So then he said 'it's not you, it's, well, it's not me either. It's your sister.'”
The chuckle that accompanied that last quip was the last thing I overheard before I slipped on my headphones, the music already playing. Today's playlist was a blend of several of my favorites. I'd combined my usual jazz filled hiphop with my selection of depressingly angry rock, throwing in the soundtrack to a favorite game of mine, a war simulation that didn't take itself seriously, the soundtrack it was paired to was suitably and equally over-the-top.
I have a good memory. I entertain myself by glancing at one section of the train, closing my eyes and then counting how many people are sitting there. I'm rarely off by more than one sleep-deprived strap hanger. That's very impersonal though. What I find far more interesting is focusing on a single person. I'll remember all the aspects of their face, the shape of their nose, the color of their eyes, how much makeup they've caked on that day, how thick their eyebrows are, whether or not their lips are chapped, everything. Then I'll close my eyes and reconstruct them in my mind. But that, in itself, is hardly interesting. There's no challenge in reproducing what's already there. Instead, I'll modify the nose, change the eye color, maybe add a mole or two. Just as well, I don't have a photographic memory. I instead remember faces as a group of aspects, as a group comprised of a nose, eyes and a mole. This simplifies the modifications as I'm not bound to any artistic integrity I might have had if I could remember reality as it actually is.
It always astounds me how packed a train can be and, at the same time, how apathetically impersonal it is. I can stand close enough to somebody to smell their breakfast and yet not know anything else about them. I can be closer to strangers than I am to my family during dinner or to my classmates during lectures. In fact, if either of those two situations had people as close to me as they are right now, it'd be uncomfortable. But here, in the train as it passes over the bridge and the sun streams through the acid-scratched windows, I stand with my headphones set to an uncomfortably loud track that's just starting to build up its bass beat with a half dozen people within 3 feet of me. And I close my eyes, bringing forth from my memory the scenario that's around me.
The image of the blond girl standing in front of me pops up in my mind first, her face a blur for a moment before I set to the task of clearing away the mist. Her green eyes sparkle into existence, framed by her thin eyebrows. Her hair brightens in luminance as I trace its ends while remembering where they should fall. Over her shoulders and down past her bust, I recall. Her blue shirt comes forth as I trace hair past it, the curve of her bust traced and altered until I'm satisfied I have the proper dimensions. Almost as an afterthought, I add on the thin black strap of her bag, over emphasized in a pathetic attempt to make it up to myself for nearly forgetting about it.
I set about filling in the rest of the passengers around me, another girl standing next to the blond, her back towards me, the man to her left, one hand wrapped around a rail, the other clutching a book, the young man to my left, leaning against the door in a misguided attempt to fall asleep as the light shines in his face. I filled in the floor, a messy thing with a streak of black where a bicycle's tire had an unexpected meeting with a shift in momentum. I went back and made the blond girl's bust a tad bit larger. After all, if I'm entertaining myself, might as well entertain all of myself. The two men directly next to me were altered as well. I thought about how the high schooler to my left would look with more facial hair, superimposing the image of hair growing out of skin over what unfolded in my mind; decided that he looked worse for the wear with more hair, instead removing it entirely, having the hair simply fall out of the skin in my zoomed in view.
Predictably, I lost interest quickly. He fell through the floor, vanishing from the landscape. They all did, one at a time, timed to the beat now rattling through my head. Each time the bass struck and I could feel the vibrations meet in the center of my head, another passenger met their end in my apathy. This too grew boring. The apparitions left with little fanfare. Perhaps a more violent end would be suitable.
I opened my eyes. Everybody was still there. The high schooler to my left now wide awake, apparently having given up all attempts at sleep. The bookmark in the man's book changed places. The blond girl's actual attributes incited a twinge of disappointment. The sun no longer shines through the windows, we're underground now. That won't do. I close my eyes again.
All the familiar characters pop back into existence, their memory persisting, sharpened as I focus on the various details. This time, I make sure to add the girl's bag, I adjust the location of the man's bookmark, I place a sombrero on the high schooler, solely because I can. Pleasantly, we're back on the bridge, the sunlight diffuse and permeating the train from every angle. I animate the characters in my play; none of them talk but all of them fidget. Right then, the track changed in my headphones, the lull in noise triggering a serene pause in the fidgeting crowd in my mind. The few seconds of inactivity have the effect of sending my thoughts wandering. How are the other passengers handling the swaying of the train? Wouldn't it be surreal if the railings swayed as well? Well, resonated, to be specific. But that wouldn't work, they're connected to everything else, they'd have to be separated. And so they were, the railing to my right floated by itself, resonating because I willed it to. That only lasted until the next track declared itself with a thundering crash, a sound I associated with disassociation. The railing burst apart into a cloud of metallic shards, each catching the sunlight in a different way. These fragments, in turn, vaporized into tiny particles, coming together to form a grayish mist of reflective dust. This was more like it. I knew the track that played now. I knew when it wound ramp up the power, when it, one time only, toned it down only to increase the magnitude of the subsequent surge, I knew it. And I intended to do it justice.
At the next clash of drums, I saw a wave of disintegration ripple through the train's cabin, the resulting particles falling away through the bridge into the water below. Its cessation took with it the advancing threshold of destruction, leaving my attention to focus on the cloud of dust that was, just moments ago, tons of metal, plastic and human flesh. How many molecules were there? What would immediately condense into that cloud? From all those people, how much fat was there floating in mid-air? How much protein? A flash of curiosity struck and, with it, an answer coalesced: a muscle came about from one of the concentrated portions of the cloud. Half a meter long, a spasm contracted it, pulling at invisible tendons only to tear itself to shreds as the music progressed. The chorus passed around again, taking with it another third of the train, this time from the opposite end. This was hardly interesting the second time around.
It would only make sense, there would have to be wind flowing through what was left of the cabin now. It would then follow that wind would sometimes gust up, especially at the altitude of the bridge. And what interest would a gust of wind be if it didn't take with it a handful of passengers who now had no railing to hold on to? Their stoic silence as they fell the dozen stories until they hit the water matched perfectly with the calm interlude that I had been waiting for.
My attention turned back to the blond in front of me. Her hair, now caught by the breeze, gracefully wafted about her as the tips began to evaporate. The muscles around her mouth budged, her mouth about to open. The oncoming barrage of bass spared me, however€, from whatever inanity I might have imagined her to say. She, along with the oblivious pair of the sombrero wearing high schooler and the dedicated book reader, abruptly changed her preference in the state of matter category, no longer holding my interest. A final gust of wind blew them away almost as soon as it was possible. The disintegration of their memories was complete.
My eyes opened to the bustle of a major station, with enough passengers stepping off the train to allow me a seat. Sleep did not elude me.
I opened my eyes, a sense of confusion washing over me. An absence of something made me feel naked, deprived of something I felt was customary and, even more than that, necessary. My wireless headphones were still on my head, I felt my wallet in my pocket, my phone in the other, my bag was on my lap, cushioning my elbows as my palms dropped from the cradle shape they’d been forced into by my forehead while I slept. Something still felt off, my music should’ve started up by now. I’d assumed I was in between tracks but the interval was too long by this point. Maybe I hit the pause button on accident while I slept, or the battery died. I hurriedly reached for my pocket, thrusting my hand in only to find a pack of card I’d forgotten about. More importantly, the phone wasn’t in there. It must’ve fallen out and been stolen, or I’d been pick-pocketed. The connection died when the train pulled away and out of wireless range.
“I need to wake up.”
