|
I hope he likes it.
I hope it works.
But if he finds something wrong with it? If he
shakes that big head in disapproval, or runs one beefy
index finger — tsk, tsk, tsk — over the other...?
I don't even want to think about it.
He won't let me stay here if he doesn't like it.
I hear him now, like a thunderstorm a few miles off:
That booming voice cracking jokes, and other people
guffawing along with him, as they always do,
obediently.
He's headed this way.
I don't see him, not yet, but I know what he'll look
like, what he always looks like. Nothing about him
ever changes. He'll have a pasty soft suburban face,
but his uniform will be dark, and as sharp as the
blade on a city kid's knife. You could lose a finger
running it over the crease in his pants. You could
lose the contents of your bladder looking into his
deep-set eyes.
You could lose everything, just by pissing him off.
Trust me on that.
I take it out again, turn it over in my hands. It
looks good, feels fine, I guess. No obvious
imperfections, nothing I can detect but then, who am
I, and what do I know about these things? I don't
even know the name of the woman I bought it from.
He's the expert. He's the one who knows.
And he's so close now, just a few feet away, god he's
fast. As I sink lower in my seat, pressing my knees
against the cushion in front of me, I glimpse the dark
black tip of his hat. The thought of hiding occurs,
hiding or fleeing, but it's too late for either.
He thanks someone, thanks someone else — god he's
polite, he hides that malice so well — thanks a heavy
woman in a tank top two seats up. He says something
clever, to which someone else chuckles. Across the
aisle from me, a balding man in a business suit
smiles, too.
I should force a smile. That would be good, but the
muscles on my face refuse. My bladder feels full. It's
almost my turn. One more row of seats and he'll be
here, practically on top of me, scrutinizing, dark
eyes probing, for what I don't, I really don't, know.
I never know what he's looking for, what he's really
looking for...
He takes his eyes from the woman in the seat in front of me
and drops them right. on. me. He presses a small plastic counting
device in his left hand — click — and smiles plasticly,
raises his thick eyebrows beneath a dark blue cap like a pilot's,
and nods. It's my turn.
"Ticket, please," he says.
My hand shakes as I go for my wallet, where the
little blue stub is. I've never used this one before.
I just bought it at the station before I got on the
train.
I hope it works.
I hope he likes it.
|
