There He sat, once again staring languidly out of the foggy boxcar window. Outside, trees of orange and yellow rapidly rushed past, as if fleeing some formidable danger or evil. His throat clenched bringing the bulge of his adam's apple high into pillar of his neck. He held it there, closing his eyes and subduing the urge to cry out. His jaw clenched, creating tense bulges on either side of his face. This brought a hard intensity to his already weathered appearance. As his face relaxed, he brought his eyes skyward, sinking a little in his luxurious orange-plastic seat, and let out a long afflicted sigh. His attention was then brought to his throne, who designed these seats? Who would ever have thought this looked good… or felt comfortable...There...his eyes clenched like a vice...it happened again... He sighed heavily; once again he had let his mind wander from the issue at hand onto a subject of such trivial and meaningless value.
As the train came to a common, screeching halt, he slowly raised himself from his pallid throne and edged his way through the crowded car, toward the blinking red, "EXIT," sign. He accidentally bumped the shoulder of a small, yet seemingly Napoleonic Indian Man. The man was clad in a fresh, but cheap pinstripe shirt, accented with a gold chain and the smell of cheap tequila. The stranger took his attention from the cell phone he was talking on and shot his "bumping perpetrator," a harsh look of aggressive superiority, and held it until his offender had completely exited the car, and his sight.
The train devoured its new load of people, and trailed off in a new direction. He looked down at the cracked cement outside the train station, then to his work appointed black faux leather shoes, then averting his gaze, he looked off to the left, the opposite direction from which he came. There was a field there, and in it grew tall, green grass, and large awkwardly overgrown bushes filled with vibrant blooming flowers. He let out another long breath of air from his bulging cheeks and headed to the nearest bench in sight.
He had been here before; about ten to twelve times if his memory served him right, but he never made the connecting train, he always ended up back where he came from. It was like there was some wall, too high for him to scale, keeping him from that ticket booth; the wall bricked with fear and sealed with ambivalence. He saw, in this new direction, a new life… just out of reach. Something held him back, a melting pot of pride and distrust. The thought of the unknown scared the hell out of him, is ignorance really bliss, or are we all damned to a life of wondering what could be? So there he sat once again, unsure, torn, without advice. This was all up to him, it was HIS LIFE, and he refused to ask anyone for help, especially, his father.
Part of him knew, ultimately, he would once again board the returning train, "home,” but he remained there, on his bench of indecisiveness, clinging to the hope that he had the guts to get the hell out this time.
He realized that he was still wearing his tattered old pack, so he took it off, and went to set it on the vacant half of the bench he was perched on, and that is when he saw him. A man, sitting about ten inches from him, reading a newspaper, completely comfortable as if he had been sitting there for hours and found the perfect niche of comfort. How had he not noticed the man before? Has he been sitting here the whole time? In his baffled state, he didn't realize that his glance had grown to a full-fledged stare that was all too conspicuous.
The stranger turned and looked at him, "Can I help you?" he asked, his demeanor was warm, and surprisingly un-annoyed.
"What?" he replied,
"Can I help you, Jon?" The stranger asked again, more directly.
Jon was, at first, startled that the man had called him by name, but quickly realized that he was still wearing his name-tag from work.
"OH, uh, no...Sorry, I d-didn't mean to stare, you just startled me that's all. I didn't hear you sit down, I'm just in my own little world I guess," replied Jon with a false chuckle.
"It's quite alright," said the stranger, reassuringly, "I tend to have that sort of effect on people." He had a nice countenance about him; Jon liked it.
Jon smiled back, a half smile; still a bit startled at this mans instant presence. He looked away and tried to again focus on the task at hand. He tried, but he couldn't compose his thoughts, something about this stranger had all of his attention.
As the stranger returned to his paper, Jon shot quick glances in his direction, sizing him up, trying to read him. Jon always thought he had this sixth sense for figuring situations and people out just by looking at them, but this guy, he created some kind of blockade within his mind. Before he knew it Jon was blatantly staring at the stranger again, his eyes idiotically wide. The stranger had a face that was hard, but at the same time, comforting, like your father looks to you when you are a boy. He wasn't necessarily an attractive man, he was somewhat average, but something about him kept your gaze a moment longer then you might give to most people.
The stranger smiled and without looking up he asked Jon, "So, where are you headed?" This took Jon by surprise, seeing as he was still staring at the man, almost in a trance. John tried to reply, but stammered over his words, "I, oh, um, well you see..." He stopped, stretched out his eyelids real wide, and then relaxing them replied, "I am not really sure where I am heading. I guess you can say I am on an escape mission, er… that I'm fighting my way out of my current prison…or, life..." John looked to the wall on the opposite side of the station; his face was dumb and perplexed. He was astounded that he was able to reply with such assuredness, that he was able to voice the complexity of the truth, and that, moreover, he had told the truth to begin with. Normally when he was faced with questions that had personal or complex answers he just lied, putting on the same facade that so many others do, after all, Jon wasn't anyone special, and he was aware of this; Why should he waste anyone else's time and energy with his issues, just to have someone disregard him or to add to their Sunday gossip. Lord knows he didn't want to deal with any false sympathy anyways.
"Intriguing,” replied the stranger, without looking up from his paper. "Seems you have a story behind those wide eyes, Jon, I like stories," he ruffled his eyes as if in contemplative thought, sat down his paper and turned to look at Jon, "Talk to me...."
"Well, uh, I don't want to trouble you with..."
"Nonsense," exclaimed the stranger jovially, cutting Jon off, "We have time to kill, my train doesn't leave for a few hours, and you don't even know where you are going as of now, so… talk to me."
"Well, no offense man," Jon said, looking away, "But I don't really know you."
"You haven't tried to know me Jon," said the stranger in a stern, yet strangely friendly tone of voice, "All you have done is look at me, but you haven't really tried to know me, and let's face it, what is the harm in simply talking? Either we sit here in silence, or we talk, either way, I'm still here and you are in the same amount of danger of me hurting you…which is none."
Jon digested the thought, and looked up at the stranger who was smiling again. "I guess you're right," Jon said, straightening out his back, and sitting up. He wondered why the aversion to conversation came so naturally to people, why is there such distrust among us? I mean, I guess there are bad people out there, but chatting never killed anyone, the key was to just not follow the guy with the free candy, right?
"So, Jon, Talk to me."
"Well, Like I said, I don't really know where I am going, but I get this feeling that there is something more, somewhere better than where I am. I don't know where the feeling comes from, but I can't ignore it anymore, it's too strong." Jon, trailed off from the sentence, feeling a tingling in the back of his throat.
"So, what is stopping you from seeking out this…better place?" the stranger asked.
"Well, a number of things, I guess," Jon said, then reached into his pocket and took out a photo, he unfolded it and handed it to the man, "Here is one."
"Oh, I see," said the stranger as he surveyed the photo, "She is a very pretty girl, do you love her?"
Jon closed his mouth and straightened out his neck. This man, this stranger had just forced him to confront an issue he all to often diverted… and who was he to ask it? He barely knew him. Although this shocked him, what truly surprised Jon, is that he felt completely comfortable answering; as if the stranger were some old friend he had known and confided in for years.
"Well, what is love? I mean, she is a very nice girl, one worth marrying I guess, and like you said, she is very pretty, and so...I should…want… to stay with her, but...well, ya, I guess I love her." Jon's heart sank a little in his chest, knowing he was playing tricks on himself again.
The stranger listened with unwavering absorption, as if it were his own son who was opening up to him
Jon continued, on his own this time, after a long pause of introspection, "and well, it's not just her... I mean, I have a job, arguably a good job…and I mean, my life is set up there...right?
The stranger nodded without breaking his concentration, and said, " Well Jon, it seems you have everything you need, so the question is not what you are leaving, but why it is that you feel you must leave."
Jon shook his head and looked away, a tear swelling in his right eye, he constrained it and answered, "That is where the problem really begins, I... I don't know."
The stranger again respectfully nodded, "Well then let me ask you this Jon, what gives your life value?"
"Well, from what is value contrived? I guess all the things I just told you, I live with a beautiful girl, I have a good job, where I make good money, and I have a lot of friends, and... god I must sound so disjointed... I am blessed, right?"
The stranger just looked at him, without nodding.
Jon felt his stomach begin to turn, recognizing that familiar urge to put on the same, all too natural facade, or to just end the conversation. Overwhelmed he was even tempted to just get up and run like hell, when, suddenly, "It's okay Jon, I know it's hard, but please stay, don't run, we are almost there.." John opened his eyes, and his jaw slightly dropped. Did he mention leaving? Did he even hear that voice, or was it in his mind?
Then he looked up at his new friend, who was still there, just waiting to listen, his face ruffled with pain. Why does this guy care so much? His stomach untwisted, ending the war it was waging against itself.
"Jon," the stranger spoke, his voice softer and more gentle than any he had ever heard, "In my experience, value is not measured by what you have, or by who you are in comparison to anyone else on this earth."
Jon swallowed, hard.
"So Jon, let me ask you again, do you love her?"
Silence, Jon's lips quivered, his eyes shot around without focus. He closed his mouth and his eyes, breathed slowly but heavily through his nostrils and croaked out a small pathetic, "no."
"Then what is it you lack? What are you seeking?"
Jon searched desperately for an answer, his mouth agape. His eyes began to well with tears of desperate frustration; there was no escaping it this time, and nothing could mask what this man had drawn out of him. His face grew red and he began to speak, "I feel so alone," he muttered through what seemed to be a clenched throat, "I feel like a crazy person… like the guy who breaks down and kills himself, all his friends are amazed, 'I have no idea why he did it, he had everything a man needs, he seemed fine.' I don’t wanna die…it’s just…”
Jon thrust his face into his calloused hands and began to sob, "I don't know where to go. I just know I am not supposed to be where I am."
The stranger put his hand on Jon's back, and for some odd reason, it instantly came together. Jon understood what he needed, what his life was lacking, this man had brought him something that he had never truly known, he recognized the feeling, he had felt it before, but never so genuine.
He stopped crying, but the tears remained.
The stranger stood up, and reaching into his coat pocket, pulled out a train ticket, and extended his hand, offering it to Jon.
"Run Jon, I promise this ticket will bring you what you so desperately desire.” Jon looked away, “Oh Jon, you have so much potential, remember what has happened today, do not let these feelings escape you, if you hold on to what you have learned, you can escape your past. There will be suffering, be sure of that, but if you simply take this ticket, you will have leaped over the fiercest hurdle you will ever face."
Jon reached out towards the ticket, which the stranger still held, unflinching. Jon's hand slightly withdrew, but then grasped it. That is when he noticed the hands, and he felt a peace unlike any other he had ever felt.
Jon wiped the fluid from his eyes and stood. He turned and to his surprise his new friend was gone. Jon sat and stared intently at the ticket for the next few hours.
Night fell, and Jon sat there, still, until the train arrived. He stood, and began towards the train, then …hesitation. Something stopped him, a whisper, almost audible. "You don't stand a chance, you will end up right where you started anyways, so don't waste your time. But then Jon remembered the hands. A small, almost painful smile befell his face; he clenched the ticket firmly in his hand, and boarded the train.
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