A gray Monday, stormy, like T-Bone used to say. Everybody was sick, drained, like a flower in a desert from the freedom that weekends can give you. All sipping lots of coffee, which only makes them sleepier. As a result, they splash that hot liquid around like babies holding uncapped bottles. On top of that, there's the lack of focus caused by a hangover and dehydration, which is exacerbated by coffee. This can't be good. What can you say other than, shame on them because they are mistaking coffee for cocaine? Only white powder can properly wake you up. Crazy! I thought that was common knowledge.
It's fun, though, to look at that ambiguous crowd, it's like seeing sloths in a hurry. Funny! But after a while, sadly, it loses its fun. Now, going by subway, you'll see a sad portrait of ordinary life, normal people hating their corporatist costumes. I can't tell why this isn't funny anymore, it's just dull. Some say, "If nobody dies, it's a comedy." I'm curious about what they would say about this. Anyway, maybe the repetition is the cause of it. There are no spontaneous events, no spark, nothing to pay attention to. It's something like your life before you know what. Everything was just the same as yesterday, yesterday was the same as two days ago, and so on. Life had a similar pattern with its ordinary events until something shifted that familiar feeling. You wake up that day, doing your usual routine: brushing your teeth, making yourself a cup of coffee, some eggs, maybe. This is usual, something you do automatically. But this time, something took that carelessness out of it. This time something was strange, so strange that it definitely could be called "wrong," but you couldn't name it. It was "the unknown," an intuition rather than a concept, like a shapeless background, a "something is funny about my sandwich, but I don't know exactly what." But still, you keep on going with your life, what else can you do, right? Although that feeling starts growing and growing, filling you up, like a robust guy at "eat how much you can," fills his guts.
Anyway, you learn how to live with it, and it does not take much to add it to your system, though it's awful and you are pretty sure that nobody—ever!—felt this way. That's bad for your soul! It only makes you feel cast away from society, even more than you were. Nothing is more awful than the ability to not "fit in." Even in our private lives, there are some rules you have to follow, so our privacy is more likely to be known because of the deductible patterns of it. In the morning, you can only drink tea or coffee, eat eggs or cereals, and so on. Your private life isn't so private, actually. Tough, instead of creeping you out, it calms you down, making you say, "It's normal," giving you a healthy, I guess, feeling of acceptance. So not having that, gives you a permanent vigilance and a frown tattooed on your face, but not an angry frown, more like a frown that says, "I know you... from somewhere, hmmm!" or "So, you're my father, ha?"—an expression that shows perplexity.
Time passes by. Now it is Sunday, and you decide to drink because, besides the usual, there's that strange feeling. Meh! That's more of an excuse; you like to make yourself shitfaced a day before going, again, in that environment of rushing sloths. It gives you a rush, an adrenaline rush, because you still do reckless things, and your life is not boring. You can even say that to your co-workers in the form of "I drank last night." So refreshing and such a cool feeling! It's almost like sex! Naaah, shut up!
So you get dressed, close your door, maybe put a red sticky note as a reminder that this is your door, in case you get that drunk you'll forget which one is yours, and get there, where a day after you will be filled with dull, maybe sympathetic creatures. It depends on your mood, who knows? Today it feels different. It's not just sad; now it's sad and repulsive. Big difference! It actually is. In a week's time, there's a passive sadness, they are sad because they "have to... otherwise..." "Otherwise" is unconscious; our mind "eliminates" things from our perceptive field if it feels that's additional or unessential. So "otherwise" from the previous construction connects the social obligation to an effect that's the response to failing to do those obligations. "I have to go to work otherwise an empty and homeless stomach awaits." Today people are doing something about it, you can sense that. They are manifesting their freedom, you can see "Who the fuck are you to tell me to do so?" on their faces, you like it, you like the filth of rebellion. But how free can one man be in a society, I'm asking for a friend: Free as a fenced horse? Free as a fish in an aquarium? Free as a cuffed man? Free as a bird that can't fly? OK, enough! We're free as much as social norms allow us. Their "freedom" could be sensed in the air. It smells funny, like a harsh cologne, mixed with puke and Cheetos, piss, rat shit, and always something metallic—it is a subway station after all. You see thongs popping out of pants at every turn of the eye, which you have to admit, you like seeing. Drunks are there too, not only the usual drunks, the ones who will be respectable sleepy, sputtering coffee animals the next day. But now, you're looking down at 'em, though you don't know exactly why, because in a few hours, you will be able to claim yourself drunk. Humans are oxymoronic beings, what more is there to tell?
Finally, you get the train that takes you to 458 9th Avenue (between 35th and 36th), where there's a nice Irish pub from which you have been thrown out for playing darts with the bartender's face, trying to fuck a broom, and acting violently with the ceiling fan. Congratulations, you're a drunk. That being said, there's nothing more to do after tonight's achievements than go home, right? So, you're once again in that pit where trains come and go, finding yourself peeing on some pole, thinking, "Fuck, I'm that guy!" A smell of "pussycat"! You look down and see a pair of pink thongs, but no one to wear them. Sad, ha? You're wondering how they got here, in such a lonely place, at your feet. You're trying to rewind their history to find exactly what happened in such a meticulous way as if you were trying to solve some philosophical problem, as if there was the answer to our whole existence at your feet and you only needed the right questions to understand it. You're not wondering why you're using a subway pole as a toilet, not even why you don't feel shame because there are a lot of people watching you, some of them taking pictures. Fucking tourists, right? They don't know how New York is, so fuck 'em! Your problems are far more serious, transcendental! Which apparently, only a peeing drunk is able to solve. The world is a much better place because you're in it. Thank you! You're even questioning the origin of their moisture. Are they peed on? If so, is it your pee or somebody else's? But if it is only pee, then where does that pussy smell come from? Alright, then, it isn't your pee. You narrowed it down to girls. Are they peed on or are they just "wet"? It can't be pee. You know that pee smells like kidneys, though you don't know what a lady's pee smells like. Fuck! Tough problem. You decide not to get into polemics. You have to focus and avoid dead ends. You arrived at the verbalized conclusion: "Those panties are wet!" Maybe I unnecessarily shouted, don't you think? Anyway, the problem is still unsolved. If they are only wet, why throw them away? Maybe some Latino lover fired up an Asian girl, leading her to turn on her fire sprinkler system. OK, but why Latino and Asian? Because it is unlikely to be white. Statistically speaking, white people make up only 41.3% of the New York population, so it's more plausible not to be a white couple. Their disposal came from thoughtlessness. Also, "came!" Funny! Stop, stop, stop! Pay attention! Yeah, yeah, that detachment was the cause of his carelessness towards placing the pair in his pocket. Usually, wet panties are given as a reward for a man's achievements in sexually satisfying the girl. As a result of his or her light-hearted demeanor, whoever was in charge of putting those in the pocket failed. It's Sunday, and people are still drinking because it's the weekend. This is the cause of their "sensational." It's unlikely to be just negligence. Thanks for solving this, agent/shaolin/professor/porn star/Slash.... The world is saved.
Finally, your train arrives. You're proud of yourself. You did a lot of things today and nothing bad happened. Yes! Now, it's time to hop on your beloved train that gets you home. You found a seat. This and the unaltered state of your well-being led to a positive episode. It feels good to have something pleasant in life. "I deserve it," you thought. Now, life seems to you to be beautiful and bearable. In fact, it's easy. A warm feeling took over your actual miserable state and you thought, "It's a blessing to have the opportunity to see its natural and anthropological beauty. Life, after all, is beautiful, and the sun (metaphorically speaking, because it's late night... or early morning) is shining brighter than ever." You had a radiant smile that had something cathartic about it. It was the same smile that monks have, full of serenity and peace. It was like sunshine; it could warm you up in just a matter of a few seconds. Who would've thought a person cold such as you is capable of feeling those feelings? It felt great….amazing.
You realized THE STRANGE. You check yourself in a window reflection to see how good a drunk guy looks. The train was full, it was packed, but you saw nobody's reflection, only yours. "That's odd," you thought. It stopped at another station. You saw people getting old while they were going to their seats. People with blond dyed hair changed into pink, or blue, or red, or white... They visibly grew older, second by second. Children became adults, and adults became children again. The same people became angry, sad, happy, and sad again. Some attempted suicide and succeeded. Others died and returned. Still, others broke out the windows and jumped right through them. People were singing some Pavarotti arias like they were celebrating something:
N֙e jamme de la terra a la montagna No passo nc'֙e! No passo nc'֙e Se vede Francia, Porceta e la Spagna
E io veco a tte ! E io veco a tte Tirato co li ffune,ditto 'nfatto Ncielo se va, 'ncielo se va Se va comm' '֙a lu viento a l'intrasatto Gu֙e, saglie s֙a ! Gu֙e, saglie s֙a Jamme, jamme 'ncoppa, jamme j֙a
Funicul֙i, funicul֙a
Se n'֙e sagliuta,oje n'֙e, se n'֙e
Some were fighting or killing each other over some major or minor causes. A fat dude was singing that NFS song, you know which one, the one that goes like: "To the window/ To the wall/ To the Wall/ Till sweat drop down my balls." You managed to contribute with an "all skeet-skeet motherfucker!" Precious moments. Mariachis were popping out of nowhere.
"You stole my purse!"
"No, I did not, Mrs. Sorry for your loss."
"After you steal from me, you have the courage to mock me? You are dead!"
"Crazy woman!"
The thief, he died, suffocated by a large woman. She forced a piece of cloth, maybe a scarf, or a really big napkin up to his throat. He didn't have a chance. In all this time mariachis were singing:
Si Dios me quita la vida antes a ti La voy a pedir que concentre mi alma en tuya
It appeared funny to you, given the circumstances that just happened. "Poor bastard… living with his killer."
Some fatal deaths were happening too. Some were choking on their food or water, tongue piercings; heart attacks. Everything appeared in front of your eyes like some files from a photo album. Nothing lasted longer than a second or two and everything returned to normal. But nobody seemed to react to what was happening. They lived their own individual acts as a protagonist, only you were able to watch successive variations of "plays." You checked your reflection, and you saw other people too. You looked around for a few seconds and there was no alternance. Finally, tranquillo, silence for a moment, then... the train was on fire. AAAAND MADNESS AGAIN! Fire everywhere, people were burning alive, panic and shouts, some were trying to rob other people (What a stupid thing to do knowing that you'll probably be dead soon!), a guy was viciously trying to use you as a fire shield, you panic yourself (What a cocaine-like experience, ha?!) You killed someone, and you start crying, "I pushed someone into the fire!" So many emotions... a rainbow! Back to normal again. What is this? This lasted longer and everybody took part in it! People were disappearing while the train was still moving! Damn! It's a head each. Craziness again! You had enough of this. You get down at the first stop. "F*** (I meant to say 'fuck', thought I should mention it, maybe it's unclear) this, what's this?" You grab someone by his shoulders and madly stare into his eyes.
"Hey sir, have you seen an older version of me?"
"Wha... what do you mean? Like your father or something?"
"No! I don't mean that. Can't you see what's happening around us?"
"No, lay off of me! Cazzao pazzo, questo paese è pazzo?! I find myself saying this at least five times a day. Avvicinato by a pazzo like this in this city. Fuck you!"
"Fuck you too for not seeing the truth!"
You decide to go grab a bite, to clear your head. How foggy could it be? You arrived at the diner you usually go to. Mindy is working.
"Hi Mindy!"
"Hi, motherfucker!"
"Bad day?"
"You wouldn't guess."
"Try me."
"What's up, someone spits in your coffee today, besides me?"
"Very possible."
"What happened?"
"....."
"Hmmm! What do you want?"
"A coffee and a pastrami sandwich."
"Original."
"Why are you asking, then?"
"Meh! Keep the conversation going. Why don't you tell me one of your jokes, right now? What happened to you? Come on! You like to see my tits jiggling."
"Well, never mind, it was just something strange that isn't worth mentioning. Do I have some social obligations now, or what? Am I the joke guy to you, a clown?"
She looked straight into your eyes with a ray of sadness that melted you down like a cheap pair of sneakers in the microwave. You felt sorry for yourself.
"You don't have to, if you don't wanna, Gee!"
"Of course, I do, I'm kinda stressed and.... Okay, then... I apologize, I'm sorry, mama. Yeah! A sandwich goes to a bar. The bartender saw him and said, 'Get out, we don't serve food!'"
She laughed.
"I'm glad you liked it."
It seemed like you didn't want to be a part of a conversation right now, you were looking for a booth somewhere. There weren't many left, but there was one by the window. How unfortunate! You hate knowing that people passing by are looking at you, eating.
Mindy saw your intention.
"Won't you keep me company?"
"I want to clear my head for a bit."
"What happened? Tell me!"
"....."
"Well, find a place, then. I'll be right back at your antisocial ass. I don't like you this way. Piss off!" She gave you the finger.
Mindy is vulgar, but you like her way of being. Her vulgarity isn't rude, rather familiar. You smiled. What's vulgar anyway? I don't think that people are intrinsically vulgar, only situations are.
"Thanks!"
You're there looking out the window, somehow, it's helping you tie your thoughts together.
My God! What was that? Did those Irish guys put something in my drinks? Naaah! Drugs are expensive. Who'll spend his money like this and not take advantage of me or even see his masterpiece? It can't be it. What then? Is this the strange feeling that I've felt all week? But what does it all mean? Am I a medium? Can I see the past and the future? Ha! A medium, a clairvoyant, I'm silly right now.
It's a primitive and augmented conception of our ability to predict… Clairvoyant! Our minds can predict the future. You don't have to be a crystal lover lady or know what other embodiment of mysticism a person can be, to do it. In fact, predicting the future is a vital aspect of our lives. We unconsciously take past events and carefully place them in current situations, trying to see if there's a similarity between those two, to predict what may happen if we act in certain ways that are familiar to us, or if it will be better not to do so. We are constantly operating with those two concepts, past and future.
What is it, then? What the fuck is it? Maybe this is the way that the mind operates with its own known reality, ignoring "irregularities" that are not fully perceived or understood, constructing its known reality over the new emerging one. I'm wondering what I haven't perceived till now, or what I'm not perceiving right now because my mind says that's unfit for me. But still, what are those successive realities that I have experienced, what makes me perceive them? Are those existent aspects of reality or do I have to be checked by a doctor?
Mindy is coming towards you, with your "original order" smiling, with a weird face. She's got a lifted eyebrow, and she's constantly biting her lips. It looks kind of sexy, but also weird.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm bringing you what you ordered: a hot, blond, sexy MILF who's going to make you feel good right under this table."
Well, go have it, girl! Yeee-haa!
Then, of course, the unspeakable string of weird events just started. "Yeee-haa!"? What was that, cowboy?
My God! What is it?
People died as they grew older; new people replaced the old; and the color of clothes changed like a semaphore! The same people were kissing and proposing (though, a dinner?), fighting, and they were happy again. Some were making love, others were just loving each other, and afterward, acting like they never met. All these events passed before your eyes like fractions of memory, followed by others and coming back, in a circular motion, again and again, and again.
Mindy was under, but unrecognizable. She was a redhead, slightly older with her nose pierced and a rose tattooed on her right boob. Then she was right next to you. She was in her natural form, blonde again, pretty. You wouldn't give her 36. "How beautiful can she be?!" This time, Mindy appeared to despise you.
"What's wrong?"
"I'LL RIP YOUR EYES OFF!!"
And she jumped right to your throat. She really wanted to kill you. Mindy was reaching for the fork on the table, at one point, and despite your objections (what kind of man are you?), she managed to get it. She was ready to impair you. Luckily, you were saved by the bell, not the fire alarm, this time, the shopkeeper's bell. Some gringos with pig masks were shooting the place up, not even asking for money. It was probably their "shoot some people in a restaurant Sunday." They were killing, destroying everything, mocking people cruelly and raping them. They were laughing and enjoying themselves. Mindy ended tragically, very. Nothing about what happened should ever be mentioned. Ever! You found a way to escape. Fools! They were shooting the windows. Clearly, those animals weren't thinking about what they were doing; it was just a cruel and sadistic act. You found a moment when you managed to jump out of the window and run until you didn't hear any gun firing at you. You were surprised because you managed to do such a thing. You checked yourself. "Did a bullet penetrate me? How am I still alive? Somebody, please explain this to me!" Your eyes were soaking wet. "I saw some terrible things! I should have let Mindy kill me. Poor Mindy!" Your heart was racing… Usain Bolt, and won. You thought to ask someone about what just happened, but you took a look over your shoulder. You found yourself gazing at the diner. "I'm not as far away as I thought." Your knees were weakening. A great power dragged your whole being to the ground. "How?" you shouted. "Am I crazy? What is happening to me?" Everything was fine like nothing had happened. "Poor smiling faces, if they only knew..." Mindy was fine, and well, she's waving at you, inviting you over. You decided to go home, though. You haven't got the strength to get back in there. Ever!... not now, at least (I might get too excited with this "ever"). So it's just my experience. If I become slightly conscious of any stran... I'm not saying it, then it will be fully experienced. I don't have to see it, nor think of it too. What am I supposed to do, not thinking or seeing at all? Any access to it must be extirpated. That's how it starts... the train incident... Reflection! So I have to close my eyes, not seeing a thing, to keep the exposure to something unpleasant at its lowest, for now. I don't know what I have to do about thinking. Drugs? Some stupefiants. I'm not going to buy them, especially now. Think of what catastrophes could happen. Let's be concerned about how I should go home. All night I tried to do that. I think a cab will be good; it will be easier to get home this way."
You called a cab. Some bald middle-aged Eastern European pulled over. Russian, maybe? You can't tell for sure. You put your shades on and play blind.
"Hey, Sir! Where should we go?"
"You're my taxi?"
"No, I'm your father, good to see you again, kid… Of course, I am your taxi, what are you, blin….Oh! Ok, sorry!"
"Take me to 266 North St., Whitney Point."
"Will do."
You decided to play blind, because... you know? So it could be an excuse for your closed eyes. Robbing is the worst-case scenario that could happen. Come on, you can do it! Or you could explain to him what just happened… yeah, me neither! Anyway, this is the best thing you could do, and it might work, who would mess with a blind person? A reviving thought crossed your mind: "Not happening a thing will be refreshing, now, wouldn't it? Ah!" And a thought that leads you to analyze the human condition between other humans: "Why don't we trust our fellows? Because some are not stable psychologically or morally, enough to be trusted. Maybe now, but back then…? Back then people didn't comprehend the existence of deviant behavior, they were either possessed by some kind of demon or possessed by some kind of demon. Other irregularities couldn't be known because their historical time wouldn't let them. Their lives revolved around religion and their indigenous places, so…." So you didn't notice the driver's suspicious look. How could you? He had something in mind, I can feel that. He definitely won't get you home. But, you had your eyes closed, and all you could feel was the backseat you were in, something wet at your feet, the radio, and the driver's gibberish conversation.
"Auzi, șefu'? Am unu numa bun... Nu!... Da!... Rinichi?... Da!... 100.000? I've never done anything like this before... Allow Cristi to tell you that I've lost about 60-70 pounds. Maricel is no longer... AcumaDa, da, îl rezolv. Să vină Cristi? Nu, mă descurc. Da! Ce poate fi așa de greu? Sănătate!"
The taxi stopped. You opened your eyes. You saw nothing familiar; it was an open field. You managed to articulate some indignation.
"What?! This isn't my..."
"Aaaaa! So your eyes are good, we can use those too!"
A cold steel object smashed your head. It wasn't your best idea, right? Though, what were the chances?
After a while, your eyes were open again. You had blurry vision. You were blinking faster to wash that blur away. "That son of a bitch!" You could tell he was frustrated for some reason. "Pula mea! No, no, no, no, no! Șefu, mă descurc. Na! Cristii, Cristii, Cristii!! Ce fac cu ăsta acuma, mă? Cristii!!"
Your sight was facing up, seeing the driver's chin, and the open trunk obstructing the sky. You could tell that he was disoriented. He had no clue what to do other than keep sharpening those pointy tools. You were shirtless, but with no sign of post-surgery procedures. You reached for something to hit him with. You felt a heavy object, like a hydraulic jack, at your hand. Ha, ha! His lights were off.
"That's what you deserve, incompetent organ thief bastard!"
You turned your back to him, looking for something familiar that could tell you "this way!" Suddenly, you hear a big boom! A hard object ripped out your flesh, leaving a warm and painful feeling. You crumbled, falling to the ground. "What a day I just had!" You felt how your consciousness was leaving. A great weakness filled your body until you couldn't find the strength to feel anything anymore. You were rapidly losing energy, like a phone with a bad battery. All the life that you had was gathering at the center of your body. You knew this because you could feel its way from the tips of your toes and fingers, going all the way up, right to your eyes. Now, life could only be seen, not felt. A shock of sadness tased you. You wished you could feel this, to cry, because you couldn't be a part of this life anymore, but you couldn't. You were hollow, empty. A void, there's no air, so there's nothing to create a spark that could start a feeling. Life is something that is no longer yours. You only have a picture of it, taken by your eyes in these final moments, as a memory that stays with you for 1... 4... 5... 6... 7 seconds long...
And you're on the train, again.
"What the…? That was dark! Am I still alive? It was a dream. How could it be? It felt so real! I have to talk to Mindy, damn!
It was only a dream, after all. Was it, though? It was, right? Now, was it?"
You checked your pockets. Of course, there's no wallet. What do you think, sleeping drunk beauty, will someone wake you up with a kiss? Actually, given this situation, it's better to be robbed than kissed by a random dude while you are asleep… in a subway... or anywhere, actually.
Ah, mariachis!
There was a person who caught your eye. Something gave you the impression that he was the one who stole your wallet. Your eyes were open again, that poor thief was seeing a lunatic holding him by the neck. He had 20? 20 and something. A skinny dude wearing baggy clothes: combat jacket, a black shirt that says FTW and gray jeans. He was shivering, I pitied that poor soul, you didn't.
"Hand over the wallet, I'll fucking kill you, broom-looking motherfucker!"
Of course, he handed over the wallet, since a red-eyed man that seemed crazy asked him so nicely.
"That's not my wallet! 'T fuck out of here!"
You once again get out of that subway, checking your pockets—there's no wallet. You take your phone to see what time it is. It's 10:00 A.M. "Why do I have my phone? Why does no one want it? It's a perfectly good phone; it has buttons and everything! ". Leave it, for now! That's not so important. You saw the date, and your life seemed to be something that you can't fully grasp. This is kinda worrying (not only) you. The date showed 1/3 2022. That means it is only Monday, so a week didn't pass, only 30 minutes.
"Human mind is something scary. What is reality anymore? Maybe 'THE STRANGE' was my body giving me signals that someone was touching me, but I didn't bother answering, like I didn't bother to answer that annoying friend who is always buzzing my door. He is not even my friend; I met him when I was trying to sell him some knife kit for the kitchen. I saw an old dude about 67 or so, looking kinda mad, like he was thrown in the basement when he was a kid and now he managed to get out, pale without any muscles and long thin hair. M. Fucker looking like The Ice King from Adventure Time, minus the beard. He laughed at my offer; he said he would give me a better one: 500 dollars to give my consent allowing him to point some kind of futuristic remote at me. I asked what it does, he said it tells the future. It was enough for me to convince myself that he is nuts. Easiest 500 in my life. Since then, he comes every Wednesday, fucking Fred, at my door with his lame anecdotes and his 3D time bullshit. I feel like an experiment. He looks at me like I am some sort of lab rat. He casts his cold eyes, eyes that medics have when they ask you about the progress of your disease, and asks me: 'Have you encountered anything strange lately?' He gives me the creeps. I don't know why I talk to that guy. He gives me money, keeps me company. I am afraid of him. Oh, shit! I am a hooker. Though I am not scared, like you would be if you saw a ghost. It's fascination and curiosity, all in one. That old fart is odd. Shit! I think I'm late."
A Bronx police officer was announcing 187. A pigeon was flying above the scene, seeing the officer walking around from a guy with a backshot wound lying on his belly, to the massive-looking dude, with a red canyon on the top of his head, lying on his back near the rear of a taxi. The gun was there, a revolver clenched in the big guy's stiff hand. Both had the same look, dead figures with awake eyes looking at the sky. They were like wax statues, a monument of silence, a contemplation of what life holds: rugged skins and dreamy eyes, blue uniforms, suffering and agitation, happiness and vices, familiar voices, parks and car horns and… the end. The pigeon was taking a shit from above, the officer was swearing, raising his fist. Some sirens were getting closer, others were furthering. Morning shift and school buses, bread crumbs from an old dude looking like the Ice King from Adventure Time, minus the beard…