"Transit Story" by Andrew Menzies

[Ed. Note: Andrew describes this one as "different," but you should all give it a look. It's good.]

Like most self-proclaimed music aficionados, I have an acoustic guitar.

I suck. I can’t play anything. Well, I can- the first three seconds of “Heart of Gold”, a part of a Metallica song before it goes crazy. I know random smatterings of power chords; The Ramones chords. I can transition from D to G to C but not back to D. I know nothing substantial or remotely impressive and I’m certainly not as good as my writing partner. Bastard loves to sing songs written by musicians I couldn‘t care less about. His passion is admirable. Mine is devoid.

On the rare occasion an opportunity presents itself for my guitar-ownership to come into question, I never proclaim that I play guitar. Rather, I own one. It was a gift. It doesn’t get out much. (Besides, I never want to be the guy at the patio party playing three-chord Pixies covers to the drunkest girls. Actually that sounds kind of awesome.)

Lately I’ll turn from my work-station to glance at my axe and feel nothing but disdain. In much the same way I imagine a blacksmith doesn’t screw around with a mop, I’ve decided as a writer not to screw around with anything but a pencil, pen, keyboard or calligraphy set. It’s better for everyone.

Here’s a story of brief, exhausting anxiety that has nothing to do with the above admission.

When I go to the local big box literature retailer to purchase my annual issue of Maximumrockandroll, I get a feeling much aligned with what I imagine the sense one has when caught masturbating in public. A little fear. A little gilt. A lot of pride. There’s only one store I know of that carries the magazine and its selection is massive: if you’re a gardener, hamster-enthusiast or just really into college basketball, there’s some kind of magazine there for you.

It’s downtown so I have to take the train. I’ve got my headphones on and I’ve made it through the transit checkpoint without making eye contact with anyone. I notice a young female sit down next to me. She’s wearing all black and presenting her veiny cleavage rather proudly. She smelled like sweat and bad weed, but the sun was shining, the wind was kipping through the emergency smoke window, and I had new illegally downloaded music to keep me company. I can handle this.

I’m fascinated by her, but not in the usual way a transit-lady does. She keeps stamping her leg- not her foot, her whole fucking leg- to whatever she’s got playing on her dollar-store over-the-ear headphones. She’s just giving it- SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. Every pump as full-throttled as the last. The rest of her body doesn’t match. I sneak a glimpse and the big ugly white-girl sunglasses she has on aren‘t moving. Unkempt hair isn’t jostling, either. Even her chest is motionless, to which I begin to wonder if the theory of inertia has just been debunked. My mind strays, and I calculate what the odds are that there’s a scientist on board, and if we get some kind of co-discoverer credit when they write up the article in Popular Mechanics. Either way, she keeps going. SMACK. SMACK.

I tap my foot the drum beat in songs some times. It’s more to do with being bored or fidgety, not so much digging the tune that I feel the need to physically demonstrate my joy to strangers. When I see other people doing it, I really want to know what they’re listening to. Do I know the song? Is it something new that I should check out? Is it really terrible, like one of those guilty-pleasure tunes? Is it Skynyrd? Who the hell listens to “Free Bird” on headphones? It’s for Cameron Crowe movies and last call at the pub. Oh, it’s not “Free Bird”? Okay, cool dude. Sorry to bother you. Yeah, sure I can bum you a cigarette.

But I’m the only one who seems to notice. SMACK. SMACK. It’s not annoying, just concerning. The train rocks a bit. It does this from time to time- garbage on the track, extreme changes in weather. (I’m making this up. I don’t God damned know.) Normal. No one stirs. Then, the train stammers more so than usual and we all lurch forward about three inches. But not to worry: those who were standing remain so. Strollers don’t budge so long as the brakes are locked. The elderly barely crack so much as a cautious look across their broken, down-trodden “why the hell won’t my children drive me to my osteoporosis doctor?” faces. Everything‘s cool, right? No. This three inches, it’s just enough for gothed-out, sunglasses the size of saucers-wearing, murky puke bathwater-smelling Nipply Van Daniels’ tree trunk of a leg to move above mine on the upswing and come crashing down on my shoe as she demonstrates her love for song. SMACK.

It hurts. I grimace, clench my fists and try not to swear. She had to have noticed: the feedback from the fibre-glass floor replaced with the give of human flesh is highly distinguishable, I imagined. The dude across from us, well his concerned eyes are not at all helping the bruise that’s quickly forming under my sneaker. But she keeps going, her hoof now realigned to make contact with the ground like nothing ever happened. SMACK. SMACK.

My stop comes. I stand, limping to the door and only slightly exaggerating my injury. I curse to myself. “What an asshole. An apology would absolutely make me forget about this.” After checking the time on my cellphone, I catch her reflection in the train doors. Guess this is her stop too.

I take my time, remove my headphones and try to give her a chance to notice me and make amends. But I get bored because I walk faster than most people- prove me wrong- and jaunt up the escalator. Fuck it. I stop for a coffee. She’s suddenly in line behind me. She removes her sunglasses to order.

Down’s syndrome.

And I forgive her.

May all the hipsters burn. Good day.

[Ed. Note: As always, Andrew has his own project over at http://www.bobandandrew.com/ where he makes a webseries and you should check that out too!]