There are places where people say things are better. Where the downtowns do not empty after dark and people dare to dream beyond their means. Quirky utopias where the sins of the past are washed away by gentle rains and we all go forward arm in arm together into the brightening sunshine. Distant locations flocked to by young pilgrims, unencumbered by the deeply driven roots of age, where everything will be different. Combining both published and unpublished work, Stumptown is a collection of stories about ordinary people, navigating their personal anxieties and drama in a time when uncertainties were still tucked away and not allowed to distort the sense of hope in the air. It is a soliloquy to naivete, and the belief that a better world is a place rather than an idea.
Stumptown can be found for sale in both print and e-book formats at the following:
AMAZON
powell’s
bookshop
BARNES AND NOBLE
KOBO
indiebound
apple ibook
Glimpses of Morning
The Max train slows as it approaches before sliding to a halt. The doors open and my fellow commuters, my surrogate family, and I shuffle in like cattle being loaded onto trailers to start our journey to slaughter. The train is full. Passengers from earlier stops already fill the seats. The majority of us newbies are forced to stand. Most of us are not old enough or pregnant enough to warrant an act of chivalry. I bend my knees and lean my body forward as the Max jerks into motion. I feel pride at my skill at remaining upright without gripping the polished bar or plastic hand loops. In my head I imagine another passenger noticing my skill and thinking, ‘wow look at that guy standing up on the train without support. He must be a badass.’ These are but the musings of boredom. My skills go unnoticed.
Every morning it’s the same thing. The alarm goes off and I force myself from the warm embrace of blankets and sheets piled haphazardly, loose and not tucked in. The alarm is set away from the bed, forcing me to get out of my haven. If I set the alarm within arm’s reach there is the chance that I will shut it off in my sleep. Up out of bed. Turn off the alarm. Fingers on a chalkboard for my psyche. Take a shower. Remind myself to buy more shampoo. Wonder why the shampoo always runs out faster than the conditioner. Eat breakfast. This week it’s Captain Crunch with Crunch Berries. Get dressed in clothes that I don’t want to wear. Double check to make sure I have everything I need in my briefcase. Walk to the Sunset Transit Center and wait for the Max.
It’s a strange thing to get sucked into a routine. To start feeling like every day is the same as the last. There are minor differences. There are always minor differences, but in essence everything stays the same. I stand on the platform, today glad it’s not raining, surrounded by people I recognize but do not know. The people who join me are the same people every day. They are more familiar to me than the majority of my family and friends. I see them more consistently.
There’s Business Lady Who Wears Too Much Lipstick, Fella Who Works Out A Lot, Pink Haired Girl, Shaved Head Dude, Attractive Professional Who Wears Low Cut Blouses, Woman I’d Like to Kiss, and Balding Guy In Suit. Constant companions I know nothing about. If any are missing it’s instantly noticeable. Where is About Time To Retire Man? Is he sick today? Maybe he caught an earlier train, or was a little late and missed this one. His absence is noted and forgotten.
Over a hundred different universes are packed into the train around me. People so close you could reach out and physically touch them. So close but still millions of miles away. All follow the unwritten rules of the Max. Avoid eye contact. If you make eye contact look away as quickly as possible. No talking to anyone else. Talking is only allowed if you know somebody from outside the Max or if something happens that affects the whole group. Avoid acknowledging the existence of others as much as possible.
Many people on the Max have built up their walls as high as they will go. They send texts, read books, or wear earbuds, listening to music or podcasts. I do none of these things. To me these tools seem like crutches for the unwell. People who cannot stand to be alone. Some people have to constantly distract themselves. Fill their heads with outside stimuli to avoid their own disturbing thoughts. Hiding from self-conscious doubts and realizations of their own failings. Others need the noise because their heads are empty, containing nothing of interest to themselves or others.
I don’t know why I judge people like this. Why I think of myself as their better? It’s a point of pride for something that only exists in my mind. Perhaps it’s that inherit want to feel special and unique. The need to feel like I’m somehow a cut above the rest of the herd. I’m not special. I’m no better. There’s no way to know what’s happening in others’ heads. I have the same failings as the rest of humanity. I’m just another one of the sheep.
I stand and stare out at the streets and roads flashing past. Watching the cars moving alongside us on the freeway, competing in an imaginary race of which they know nothing about. The outside world grows boring. My attention shifts. Route maps line the wall. Today I’ll memorize all the stations on the Red Line in order from west to east. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll do the Yellow Line. Safety posters are plastered above the windows. Don’t eat on the Max. No pets except for service animals. No loud talking on your phone. Give up your seat to the disabled and elderly.
The poster for giving up your seat has people getting up for an unseen person. Judging by the looks on their faces the person must be terribly disfigured. The poster asking you to not have loud phone conversations has a Hispanic woman in the throes of an intense conversation, oblivious to those around her. An obviously perturbed Samuel L. Jackson doppelganger looks on. Congratulations to Annette Benning, Tri-Met employee of the year. I wonder what she did to earn that honor. Maybe her bus was always on time. At the very least she probably didn’t hit anybody with it.
We glide into the big tunnel. I glance away from the signs and start looking at the people around me. If everybody is avoiding noticing everybody else, then somebody like me can watch everybody without them noticing. People are much more interesting to watch than the same old scenery and the same old posters. My eyes search the faces, all neutral and bored, and look for those who have let their guard down. Here we all are, standing or sitting in a steel box surrounded by people, and yet we can forget all of it. People work so hard to ignore those around them that they forget that they are there themselves. They forget that they’re not alone, and for just a moment, let their guard down. Emotions flash across their faces.
None of us can read minds, but we can all read emotions. We can all empathize. For just a moment I can feel a connection with a total stranger. An understanding that though all of our universes are different, they all exist based upon the same rules. Our thoughts and memories are what make us independent and unique. Our emotions are the physics that tie us all together and make us all the same. In the end we all want the same thing. Somebody to connect with, somebody to care, somebody who will not turn away. More smiles than tears, more elation than despair, more victories than defeats. For just a moment I can let my own guard down and know I’m not alone. For a moment I can pretend that I’ve found what I’ve been looking for and that nothing is missing.
It’s only just for a moment. People can feel when they’re being watched. A tickling in their subconscious. They turn and look me in the eye and all the defenses pop back into place, both theirs and mine. They know what I’ve seen. Sometimes they look quickly away, avoiding prolonged eye contact, embarrassed that they’ve let their guard down. Sometimes they give me a look of disgust as though I’m a voyeur, like I’ve forced my way into their house and rummaged through things.
Sometimes they try to stare back until I look away, to reassert their dominance over their lives by asserting their dominance over the one who saw their weakness. The first one to look away is the one who is the most afraid. It’s a battle of the wills, a battle that I can’t let myself lose. I’ll not roll over on my back and show my belly. We stare at each other, sometimes for as long as a minute, keeping our faces neutral, hiding our discomfort. It’s rare that I don’t win in these contests.
Sometimes, but more rarely, they look up and make no attempt to hide their emotions. They look back at me unafraid and it all pours out of them. For some they are at peace. They don’t mind that others can see what they have within. For others their minds are chaos and breaking down. Their emotions have become a flood which their bodies can no longer contain. My greatest hope and my worst fear. When these people look up I’m always the first to avert my gaze.
The moment is gone and I’m alone again. The connection is broken. I shake my head and look back out the window, staring outward at the darkness of the tunnel flashing past. I’m not the only one to do this. I’m not the only one who searches the sea of faces. The roles have been reversed at times. I’ve felt other’s eyes on me. I’ve felt my own defenses penetrated. The response I have often differs. It’s based entirely upon how I feel at the time. Sometimes I look away. Sometimes I stare back in defiance. Sometimes I stare back and don’t care what they see. When I stare back in defiance I take pride in making them look away, in making them feel like they’ve done something wrong.
While searching the sea of faces I at times catch the eye of someone who is doing the same. For a moment we just stare at one another. A mutual understanding. The sight of a kindred spirit. The moment passes and we both look away. We both know that we can’t get what we’re looking for from the other, so we both move on. We want to explore other universes, but not let others explore ours. Neither of us is willing to take the risk, and so, the one thing we really want lies just out of reach.
The Max emerges from the dark tunnel and begins its constant stop and start through downtown. My surrogate family begins to drift away, exiting as they reach their stops. Pink Haired Girl gets off at Goose Hollow. Fella Who Works Out A Lot exits at PGE Park. The train jerks to a halt at the Library, my stop. I push through the mass of people to the door and get out as I always do. Balding Guy In Suit also gets off. He begins to walk east, towards the rising sun which is still hidden behind the tall buildings of downtown. I round the corner and head north up Tenth Avenue towards my office.
The walk from the Max station to my office is twenty blocks if I walk the quickest course. My route normally adds an additional two blocks so I can walk by the yoga studio with the big window. The air is crisp and clean. The streets are slightly damp from a rain earlier in the morning. Few people are on the street at this hour. A smattering of business people walking to work, garbage men and street cleaners going through their morning routine, and homeless people roused by the police and told to move along. Things are quiet.
The movement of everybody changes the dynamic. On the Max we’re all companions of circumstance. Forced to spend a large amount of time together in a tightly packed enclosed space. On the streets we’re more free. There’s more chaos on the streets. You rarely see the same person twice. People move in a constant ebb and flow. There’s no chance to study the people around you. Connections are quick and fleeting. If they’re walking in the opposite direction then you only catch a glimpse. Maybe they look away and avoid eye contact. Maybe they stare, their faces neutral. Maybe you get lucky and they look you full in the face and smile. Most of the time I smile back. At least when I feel up to it.
If people are walking in the same direction you never see their faces. There’s nothing to study but their backsides, which can be nice at times, but is no good for feeling a connection with the world around you. Today I find myself walking behind a group of people. After a few blocks the majority peel off one direction or another, leaving just me and an attractive blonde woman. I speed up and walk past her so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable. I don’t want her to feel apprehensive about the strange solemn man walking behind her.
At the end of each block I stop, look both ways, and then cross if there are no cars coming. I ignore the walk and don’t walk signs. What is the point of waiting if there are no cars coming? I’ve done this walk several hundred times. I could do it with my eyes closed if I needed to. All is in its place. All is right where it’s supposed to be. There are changes, but they’re so minute and happen so slowly that I don’t notice them.
My coat is not thick enough to keep out the chill. I wore my lighter coat today. It’s getting to be the time of year when it’s very cold in the morning, but warm throughout the day and evening. I turn into the usual coffee shop and order a hot chocolate. I hope that one of the blonde baristas is working today. I’m disappointed. Today I’m served by the old woman who likes to wear tight shirts and doesn’t believe in wearing a bra. I try not to stare at the hanging pendulums that all the world can see, but it’s hard to look away, even when you find something unpleasant and it makes you uncomfortable. I guess it’s more my hang up than hers.
My hot chocolate in hand I continue my journey towards my office. Small black birds sing to each other in the trees. I step around a pile of what I hope is dog shit. People walk past me going about their business. I’m surrounded by people but still feel like the only person on the planet. It’s a strange feeling. Here is the place where I was accosted by the bum last month. He had walked up and for no good reason began yelling obscenities at me. I had ignored him and walked on. A pretty brunette had walked up to me and commented how weird it was. I agreed and kept walking. I often wonder what would’ve happened if I had struck up a conversation with her.
There’s no use dwelling on such things. The opportunities have passed and you can only move forward. Never back. I look up at the windows in the buildings above me. I don’t know what I expect to see. Maybe I’ll see a murder, or two people having sex, or just someone walking around with their bathrobe open, eating crackers. The chances are low, but I always feel compelled to look. If I fail to do so I might miss something new and exciting. Something I haven’t seen before.
I feel like I’m in a rut. One day bleeds into another. One week becomes the next. Only the changing of the weather marks the passage of the months. I need to make a change. I need to do something before I go insane. I take a right and then a left and proceed to walk up Ninth Avenue instead of Tenth. I crane my head and marvel at the strange buildings around me. I’m only one block from my usual route, but it’s as though I’m in a whole different city.
A woman walks up the street towards me. Her hair is black and curly. She’s of an average height with a hourglass shape. Leather boots, tight jeans, turtleneck sweater, leather coat, scarf, and a cabby hat. She’s attractive. She has one of those walks where her hips rise up and down like the gentle rocking of a boat. It’s a nice thing to walk past. She’s talking on her phone. I only catch a snatch of the conversation before she moves past. Her voice is shrill with shock, disgust, and exasperation.
“I don’t care if he’s your best friend! I don’t want to gang bang!”
I hold it together until she rounds the corner and turns out of sight. Painfully stifled giggles erupt from me in great guffaws which echo through the empty streets. An out rushing of hilarity at the ridiculousness of the situation which I had just walked by. What the hell did the guy’s best friend do for him? The only scenario that makes sense in my mind involves heroically saving his life in the war. I shake my head and keep walking, smirking and chuckling to myself. Feeling lucky that I’ve never found myself facing issues such as the ones contained in the universe which rolled past on the phone.
I walk past the yoga studio where the women and one man, either very confident or very pervy, do stretches for all to see, yet still give you dirty looks if they catch you looking. I watch them from the corner of my eye as I walk past. I reach my office and get in the elevator. I ride the elevator to the top floor and get out. I unlock my office door, walk in, and sit down. As my computer slowly loads the thought of the woman on the cellphone bubbles up in my mind and I chuckle to myself again, at least until a new realization crosses my mind. I’m but an observer. I’ve had many friends, but I’ve never had one I would describe as that good of a friend.