The Complete Opposite of a Train-Wreck
“Excuse me, may I sit here?”
Startled, the young boy reaches up to remove the headphones shoved so deep within his head the choruses saturate his soul and leave it dripping with heavy music notes and measures. “What?” The boy says, surprised that an elderly man would bother asking if a vacant seat is available. (These older types are all the same, thinking only of themselves and constantly making their views known to the world. I guess they can get away with it easier than most younger generations simply because everyone assumes they’ve had to put up with so much in their long lives, they deserve at least a few years of not pulling punches before they kick the bucket.)
“I asked if anyone was sitting here.” The older man leans to one side as he stands in the narrow aisle and looks around the shuttle car for another empty place to rest his frail legs. (They’re always so hard of hearing. No matter what you tell a teenager they can always so easily afford a device to drown out your voice.)
“No, go ahead and sit down.” The youngster replaces his roaring earphones back to their original resting place to continue pumping his being with inspiration. The older gentleman squints his eyes to narrow, paper slits and chews his tongue for a moment as if considering his final move in a chess match. The annoyed younger boy, without making eye contact with the stranger, motions for him to sit, only because now the other passengers are beginning to stare at the two. (They’re always so hard of hearing…)
“Thank you.” The elderly man slowly squats his squat little legs as he lets out a sigh of relief to finally rest. (I’ve still got quite a ways to go…there’s never been a rule stating the trip can’t be enjoyed.)
“So what’s your name, boy?” The white haired gentleman tries to smile in a way that reveals only the parts of his mouth still containing white teeth. “I said what do the children call you?” The boy rolls his eyes and removes one of his wires pouring music like an I.V. into his being and snaps, “None of your business.” (Why do they always have to act as if they care? As if 50 years ago it would be common to converse with every mouth you pass by on the street.)
“Oh…well would you like to know what name I like to go by? I’ll tell you…” (With every generation comes another layer of skin shielding others from their insides. Those before us both could grow their hearts outside their ribcage for all to see…before it became fashionable to hide everything from everyone at every possible moment.) The young man folds and unfolds his arms two or three times and finally pulls the musical cord from its socket.
“Fine…what should I call you?” (He’ll be off this shuttle before me…it won’t kill me to amuse him until I grow bored with small talk.)
“Ah! You may call me Sagacity, if you wish. It’s a pleasure to meet you young man. May I inquire your title as well?” (Their shells are easier to crack than I would have guessed…how pleasant…)
“What do you want?” (I’m growing tired of this miserable, lonely old man even quicker than I foresaw.)
(Ignorance is resurfacing to prove my first inclination of this generation to be correct.) “Well, peace I have been given, understanding as well. I want very little more than a conversation. There’s no personal benefit for me within anything I could tell you, except possibly knowing I’ve reminded you that you’re not the only person in this ever-changing world. You would deny the harvest from dropping seeds to plant the following year?” The younger boy sat in silence for a few moments weighing his choices: continued enjoyment from his personal noisy thoughts and their accompanying soundtrack, or a quieter, new, possibly uncomfortable way of passing the time by conversing with a stranger he wanted nothing to do with.
“The title I prefer is Distance.” (He’ll be gone soon enough.)
“See that wasn’t so hard. Where are you headed Distance?” (I’ll be gone soon enough.)
The boy turned to face the Gentleman next to him and replied, “Wherever the track takes me.”
(Could this be?) “You have no stops planned? “ (How long has he…) “When did you board?”
“I’ve been here awhile.” The boy proclaims with a voice halfway between uncaring and unfeeling. “Your past is what you make of it. It is under your control more so than your future because whatever colors you use to paint your memories can be easily darkened or lightened with added pigments to suit you better. Your future is partially in your control because you decide how you will act, but there are so many other forces at work within reality that, until it passes briefly through the present state and becomes your past, it is uncontrollable. That is why the future is so dangerous until it becomes your past.” (He wants a conversation I’ll give him a topic worth talking about.)
The shuttle doors open as passengers vacate their seats for others to sit down in the warmth left behind from their quick visit. This is the only connection most strangers have, but it’s more than anyone wants. “But if you have a finish line to watch, your muscles will tighten quicker and find the strength to move. With only your past to guide you, you will surely avoid repetition, but will you achieve anything in your lifetime besides avoidance? That can’t be considered a victory to anyone.” (With time still moving I wonder if he sees his future more dependent on my actions or his reaction to those same actions…) “What say you?”
(I hate being shown both sides.) “I can’t even see both sides. This is useless. Good day Sagacity.” (Good day. Good riddance. Make your choice.)
“You seem angry…have I offended you dear Distance? I apologize.” The old man recoils with his face squeezed into a tight wrinkle in the center of his face. “Why are you upset, youngster?”
“You could never understand.” (I could never understand.) “I’ve been cursed with eyes that see the pain in a moment before the joy, and when that joy finally enters, I am still too busy recovering from the torment I just witnessed to bother to noticing.” (I am the only one I can trust with this information. Why am I cracking open my doors and spilling out? I must stop before it’s too late to close my doors in time.) “I’m the last and only person I can trust, but that saves me no pain at all.” (I could never understand.) The boy looking more distressed than ever scratches his chin and pushes the hair from his eyes. (Stupid old man. What am I doing? I could never understand.) The boy leans on his arm and avoids the wrinkled gaze of Sagacity.
“Son, when you bury your demons, you aren’t meant to leave tombstones.”
The older man places his hand upon the walled up young boy and attempts to follow his gaze but only ends at an advertisement for fine china. Distance quickly shrugs off the man’s hand and folds his own. (My demons have buried me. All I have control over is what is placed on my tombstone.) “If only it were that easy…”
The frail gentleman smiles kindly, “You must look past the past for reasons and ways to shape the clay future. Unclench your fists.” (My station is near. The time is short.) “I have found my candle to keep me lit, and I wasn’t searching in my past. I waited for the gift and was met with assurance from the unseen. This assurance was spoken through the actions of others and the truth that rings out as if from a bell tower cannot be ignored.”
Distance looks up with a half-smile at the old storyteller. (Could they really ALL lie?) “I’ll wait until my spark.” (But when it lights me up, will I stand by and wait to shape it with my mind’s pigment, or raise my arms and embrace my single opportunity to change? My very own fire to light me, my very own wax to keep me burning. Maybe…just maybe…)
The shuttle doors open at the last stop of the night, the silence crawling in through the open door and gripping both passengers tightly. Sagacity rises knowing the boy will choose to remain aboard. “When you’re ready, young friend.” (Maybe…just maybe…) The elderly man limps to the door and stops between the comfort of the known shuttle and the sharp, cold air outside. “You never have to place your pen down. If you learn to draw from your past, you will always have ink to draw your future.”
“Wait, what is your true name? Not simply your title. By what name do your own thoughts know you?”
The white haired gentleman tries to smile in a way that reveals all the parts of his mouth no longer containing white teeth. “My name is Ethan.”
The young boy smiles as the old man leaves the shuttle and walks slowly away. (I knew he looked a lot like me…)