Kidding, that’s exactly who I am now, except that I know I can’t sing but I do it anyways, especially while shopping. (Mom: “Morgan, stop it – you’re embarrassing yourself.” Me: “Nope, I believe I am embarrassing yeeeewwww.”)

But let’s go back to fourth grade. Some background info: I’d just gotten my cat, Callie (and after the first night begged my mom to just take her back to the store because she wouldn’t shut up and I needed my damn beauty sleep). I had also just visited Disney World for the first time and came back plastered with temporary tattoos that remained on my body for quite some time because I was incredible at life and terrible at bathing, apparently. I had dreams that involved Billy Ray Cyrus serenading me from the bottom of the staircase, and in my sleeping-but-happy stupor, I may or may not have sleep-walked to the bottom only to realize that life is never that good.  And because I was such a babe, I had no idea how to interact with boys. I know right – hard to believe that this guru on all things relationship-y (relationshitty? Sorry, ma) could have problems – but believe it.

Lucky for you, I’ll only put you through one such story, displaying my incompetency in matters of the heart. One which probably dictated the future of all encounters with men to come. Picture this: it’s springtime and it’s school dance time. Now, I was not so much of a babe that I ever had a “date” to such occasions, but I mean, people wanted to dance with me, okay? Okay right, school dance time. Mom had just taken me shopping to Limited 2 (because I was stylish too!!!) and bought me some really trendy things–a couple skirts, some tops, and probably some frilly socks. I ended up picking the purple, short, flowy and flowery skirt paired with a cute sleeveless creme-colored top. (Don’t be so skeptical about my memory, please. I remember this because I spilled punch all over myself later, another skill I’ve successfully carried with me into adulthood.)

Okay so there I was, total babe status, right? Right. Standing in the corner, holding on timidly to that clear plastic cup whose contents I would later be wearing, and this boy decided to ask me to dance. (?!?!?!? Who CARES that he’s kinda stout!!!!! A BOY?!?) I oblige, of course, and we begin to slow dance to Chumbawumba or something. And it goes on and on. And I think to myself, God this song is long. His hands are freakin sweaty. His head kinda looks like a vertical football. That punch was good.  

So I left him. Mid-song. Standing there. On the dance floor, alone, swaying to the music. Alone. Um yeah, so no one informed me that it was kind of traditional to dance with the person for the entire song. I did this the rest of the night with guys dumb enough to ask me to dance. One boy I left to dance with some other kid, who I then left to go to the food table. I just thought I was being efficient.

I found out YEARS later that this is not common practice at dances and have subsequently paid in full for my negligence to their feelings. (This boy told me OFF over AIM. He said I was a jerk for not dancing for an entire song with a dude and I was legitimately dumbfounded. I promptly signed off and never chatted with him again. I’m such a heart breaker. )

I guess I could use this entry as an open apology to that kid…and whoever else I danced/dashed that night or others. I didn’t think I was being mean at the time, I just thought that everyone deserved a chance to dance. And that I needed more food. But really, I think this blog serves as a reminder that I am a unique, flawed, but severely interesting person- from those dumb fourth grade dances to now, as I struggle to be an adult and pay bills and not go insane when people interrupt me mid-sentence at work (reminiscent of interrupting a dance, mid-song….). I’m happy with how I turned out and the bizarre path I took to get here.

I took an art class last night where I drew some of these people. What’s special about the art class is (points fer yall who’ve been following along via facebook and know what I’m about to say) that it took place in a pub. A wonderful, dark, seedy, gritty, delicious little pub with stained glass windows, a bunch of nooks, a couple crannies (crannys?), and a man wearing a beret who played a card game against himself. And no, it was not solitaire.

You know what pubs do, right? Yeah, they serve you BEER and you get to DRINK IT and if you take this class, or just like to be weird on your own, you can SKETCH PEOPLE from a DISTANCE, all WHILE THEY EAT/DRINK/ARE MERRY as YOU are SIMULTANEOUSLY EATING AND DRINKING AND BEING MERRY. Excuse my somewhat excessive use of all caps but I can’t be the only person that gets excited about this. They call it “sketching” for a reason…because we’re effing sketchy.

Anyhoo, so there’s 8 or so people in the class and we’re all at varied levels of artistic abilities, as evidenced by my brand new sketchbook in comparison to everyone else’s massive, worn in, and graphite-dusted ones. (Note: I’m kind terrible at sketching…so I generally just don’t do it because I make everyone a lot uglier than they are most of the time. Not that they’re ugly. But I guess I lean towards drawing unattractive people so if I screw them up worse, it won’t be THAT big of a deal in my head. I’m, like, really good at rationalizing though.)

One of the tasks for last night was to do sort of a reverse sketch. Mr. Instructor Man gave us each a black piece of paper and a white charcoal pencil and informed us that we were forbidden to draw any lines. We had to pick out the light on a subject and focus only on that…a new way of seeing, he said. “You can’t teach someone to draw, but you can teach them how to see.” Yeah it’s corny, but damn if it ain’t true. I was kinda nervous about trying this out because I’d never done this kind of technique before and didn’t feel like completely embarrassing myself in front of these ol’ pros, but I gave it a shot. And it didn’t suck! It wasn’t incredible, but it was alright. Which made me happy.

Since I know mom and pop are curious about how it came out, I decided to be vain (this word is probably completely unwarranted) and show it here. I don’t need any art critiques people, I just like the way it came out and think it’s a cool way to get started sketching if you’re hesitant. A good, easy way. AND LOOK! I didn’t make him uglier because his face is full of mysterious shadow. Ooooooh.

I bet you're digging my cell phone shot. Super high-def.

Note: My mom thinks I’m being too down on myself as an artist. That was not my intention. I was being down on myself as a SKETCHER. Not to brag but I’m, like, a super good artist otherwise. *cue scarf swoosh over the shoulder as I stare nonchalantly out the window, pause, exit room*

Sometimes it feels like you go forever without having done “your thing” and you just feel a little bit more empty than you should. But then there’s that moment when you’re sitting alone in your room after watching some mildly entertaining French film starring Audrey Taotau (who you may or may not have a huge girl crush on) when you realize that something is missing. Your something is missing.

Maybe it’s Audrey Tautao sparking the romantic in you, pushing you to reach for something you thought didn’t exist anymore or maybe it’s the way the rain is tapping on your bedside window, reminding you that you’ve forgotten something, somewhere. Either way, it doesn’t matter because there you sit, alone on your bed with an unidentifiable source of inspiration that you’re not even sure how to harness.

So you write. Or you dance. Or you sing. Or you paint, sculpt, or build. Whatever it is you do, you do it. And that’s the beginning.

Don’t worry though, I’ll be back later this week to write a unique, new, and sub-par entry.

With a blue apron casually slung around his waist, Peter Michaelidis wipes down the last table of the evening prior to heading home. His disheveled dark hair perches on top of a tired face as he slumps into a chair, absentmindedly watching the game on Sports Center. His weariness is warranted—he spent the day feeding swarms of drooling mouths before catering to two separate swim teams. Giving him the chance to temporarily prop his feet up, he savors the repose with a light-hearted grin. Even though he’s spent, his face never betrays anything but bright eyes and a carefree smile.

As he and a fellow employee volley absurd predictions about the football game, one last straggler shuffles into Boston House of Pizza and Peter resumes his position behind the counter. Dr. Don Lucas withdraws his hands from the pockets of his leather jacket and throws one over to Pete, an obvious invitation to shake it. He is a husky and balding trombone professor at Boston University who has been a regular customer at “BHOP” for quite some time. Professor Lucas chuckles giddily when he places his order of steak tips ‘to-go’, nostalgically remembering the days when Peter used him to test new food experiments.

“It’s always amusing to be his guinea pig,” the professor sighed in his Texan drawl. “When he goes off the menu, it gets interesting.”

Blushing a little, the cook tries to stand up for his culinary creations, but instead lets out his notoriously high-pitched giggle as a defense. Peter continues to chuckle as he prepares his prized steak tips and the two banter back and forth over the counter; their most amusing raillery focused on the temperature of Dr. Lucas’ bald head during the cold winter months in Boston and a haircut of Peter’s that went dreadfully wrong.

Just before handing the steaming carryout box to Professor Lucas, the folds of Peter’s forehead crease as his eyebrows rise appreciatively. “You sure are a character, man. People like you make the day go by, for real.”

Peter Michaelidis didn’t attend Boston University, yet he can remember and recite most of the names and orders of Boston University professors, officials, and students, like Professor Don Lucas. While providing a place where interesting people with interesting stories can dine together, he and the restaurant also supply a setting of stability in the middle of a buzzing metropolitan area.

Growing up in Roslindale, Massachusetts, Peter was never far from the busy atmosphere of the city. With a love for pizza and an interest in meeting new people, he would follow his father to his work on the weekends and after school. His dad’s pizza place, dubbed Fast Eddy’s, was family owned and operated, located in the busy streets of Boston. Staying mostly behind the scenes as he worked, he was able to gain a great deal of experience ranging from food preparation to the organization of important paperwork. Those skills learned as a developing chef de cuisine comes in handy now as he helps to run Boston House of Pizza as one of the main cooks.

After working at Fast Eddy’s for the entirety of his high school days, his father became ill; the family decided it would be best to close shop, so Peter chose to go work with his uncle, the owner of BHOP. Now 35, he’s been making friends and adding to the menu with his frequent food-based ingenuities ever since. Peter jokes that when Professor Don Lucas isn’t around to be his guinea-pig, he trudges through Boston’s wintry elements to bother the next-door neighbors until they agree to be test subjects. After being questioned as to why the neighbors had to be forced to try his new creations, he is quick to add, “I mean, you know. It’s mostly all good!”

Not satisfied with just the opinions of customers and neighbors, Peter always manages to find a way to coax the family members who work with him to try out his experiments too. George Michaelidis, Peter’s first cousin, is six years older and recently took ownership of the shop from his parents. Having worked with him for the past 15 years, George has experienced his fair share of unique menu items produced by Peter. His most memorable and enjoyable was the chef’s breakfast pizza, complete with scrambled eggs and chunks of link sausage on top of a soft, French-toast style crust.

Aside from his food excursions, George accounts for Peter’s exceptional work ethic; he’s an amazingly hard worker with the tendencies of a perfectionist behind the counter. While Peter is busy in the back of the restaurant, George admits that if Peter were to take a day off, two other people would be needed to efficiently take his place.

“Yeah, well, he’s good and all, but you know, he likes to be in control,” George says loud enough for Peter to hear him from the back as a smirk creeps across his face. “He’s like a woman.”

A laugh erupts in the background, followed by a loud, “Riiiiiiight George.”

Even though Peter enjoys the relationships with his current customers and fellow- family-member-employees, he has hopes to some day open up his own pizza place. Although he’s tried once or twice before, he feels that some day in the future he’ll really be ready for the endeavor; he’s optimistic and excited about the possibilities that lie ahead of him in the restaurant industry. If and when Peter does decide to go ahead with his restaurant idea, it’ll be a tough move—from finding a suitable location to coming up with the cash, there are many hurdles to overcome in creating a successful business. According to Restaurant Startup and Growth Magazine, opening a new restaurant requires a lot of risk—it’s estimated that of the half million restaurants in the United States, around 10 to 15 percent are forced to close each year. Most of those failures are restaurants that have been open fewer than three years. Even with these daunting odds, though, Peter has a lot of faith; he believes that his family and his customers will be there to back him up every step of the way.

One such customer is Ulysses Thomas. A graduate student in the third year of his Masters Degree Program at Boston University, Ulysses has frequented the restaurant since he first came to Boston three years ago. Because his classes are directly across the street from the restaurant, he simply crosses the T-tracks during breaks to grab a bite to eat and hang out with Peter.
Interestingly enough, the pair’s friendship began with the specificity of Ulysses’ first order. While a chicken-salad salad is a memorable thing for anyone to request, Ulysses insists on getting it “his way.” This means that he wants it with no onions, extra tomatoes and romaine lettuce instead of regular lettuce. Because Peter is so adept at remembering orders, this specific food order stuck in his mind—every time Ulysses entered the shop from then on, Peter remembered him as the guy with the strangely specific order.

“Peter is the kinda guy you’re just drawn to. He’s easy going, the restaurant is laid-back, and it’s definitely a different atmosphere than my classes,” Ulysses says matter-of-factly. “Having BHOP around has been good for me…I’ve been able to just go and hang out with a friend in the middle of a hectic day.”

Peter has developed many meaningful friendships like this, which, in a business sense, has proven to keep sales at a consistent (or better) level. Word of mouth combined with the loyalty of certain customers ensure the shop’s success.  Peter’s cheerful and entertaining attitude in addition to BHOP’s great menu make the restaurant a relaxed and enjoyable place for many people.
An article in the San Francisco Business Times inadvertently describes Peter’s importance to BHOP by focusing on a man expanding a restaurant franchise in California. Although the circumstances between Peter and managing director, Tim Stannard, are completely different, there is a sentiment Stannard addresses that rings true in Peter’s case. He emphasizes the importance of people employed in restaurants; they are the factor that determines its success. Without these people—the ones who show up for work day in and day out, constantly putting their best food forward—the restaurant is just four walls; it’s just a box.

Peter ensures that the atmosphere of his restaurant is more than just a bare room. He truly cares about his customers and wants to ensure a good experience every time they visit.

When asked why he decided continue cooking and working at BHOP he says simply in the manner of a shrug, “These people know me and I know them. The work here is hard, but the friendships—they make it worth it.”

PETER I MISS YOU!!!! You should probably open a BHOP in Atlanta. Call it AHOP.

Regardless, I didn’t do too much today either but I say “SCREW WHAT OTHER PEEPS ARE SAYIN”, this year is going to be good…I can feel it (amidst the interesting feelings provided by a mixture of salt and vinegar chips and taco bell that are currently saturating my stomach).

In an effort to be somewhat productive, I met with my friend Lala (author of an AWESOME blog entitled “Who Made You Great?” Read and enjoy.) at a nearby coffee shop to discuss our upcoming art show. That’s right, art show. Exhibit, if you will. If I say it here, it means I’m committing to it and I’ll actually have to produce. So yes, we’re having an ART SHOW on JUNE 4th. Venue TBD.

We met and discussed our visions, our styles, our abilities and our need to leave the mindset of “I’m thinking about doing this….” into “I’m doing it.” This is a want/need/desire I’ve had for awhile–to break out of the “do-it-tomorrow” attitude and just DO IT (thanks Nike). It feels good to have the support of a fellow artist and friend who is there to not only produce works of art herself, but to support me and help me along if I stray. (FYI Lala, you’re also supposed to support me and help me along if I stray, not sure if I mentioned it earlier.)

Just as a note, I don’t do New Years resolutions because I tend to fail within a very, very short amount of time. That whole “no coke product thing” never worked because of my somewhat severe addiction to Dr. Pepper. I still bite my nails. And exercise? Sort of a joke (although I AM determined to play tennis once the weather gets warmer ‘cause it’s actually fun). So I don’t want to consider Lala’s and my art show goal a resolution to paint more because I’d almost be setting myself up for failure.

The art show is, then, a date set in stone. If I fail, I will have to deal with the public embarrassment of being a failure. What better motivation is there? None.

So dear readers, go ahead and mark your calendars for June 4th. Either you’ll get to see some awesome pieces of art or you’ll get to harass me for being unable to complete ANYTHING.

Also, leave your email address if you’d like to be added to the “Save the Date” mailing list for the exhibit.

There is, however, a ray of hope in my future. Thank goodness for my athletic father who never fails to make me feel like a big sack of lazy when he relates to me the stories of his tennis court domination. He has inadvertently inspired me to move again.

I have no desire to be the tennis prodigy that I’m sure he once had hopes for (which is good because my foreseeable tennis skills are already lacking) but I think that the effort could be rewarded. And even if that reward is the ability to walk quickly up a lot of stairs and not be winded, I’m happy.

Just like I’m trying to do with art, if I don’t publicize my attempt to get into shape then it probably won’t happen and I’ll just continue to sit here and fuse to my bed. No one wants that. So I’ve got some sweet new tennis kicks, an extra racket from my dad, fresh socks, about 6 cartons of tennis balls and no excuse to not be awesome. Well, I need to find a tennis court but all in time…can’t be too hasty.

In short, worry not, dear friends. Your beloved Morgan will not continue to expand and her pants will stay in one piece. I hope. No, I know. I know they will remain intact.

UGGGHHH commitment is hard. Support me in my endeavors.

These are the thoughts that sting the most. Instead of simply remembering and enjoying the moments we’ve shared together, I can’t stop thinking about what our relationship would be like now and how his future would be shaping up–of where he would be and what kind of innocent trouble he’d be getting into. I’ve never known curiosity to be painful (except, of course, to that cat) but this feeling is a constant reminder of what we’ve lost and can’t have back. The memories feel inadequate and understanding how to live with that is something I don’t know how to do. I’m still plagued by the unfair.

Maybe it’s immaturity speaking and in a few years I’ll actually be able to celebrate his life without always feeling a guilt-ridden wave of anger. Of course, I hoped for the same revelation five years ago. Maybe I’ll be stuck in this fit of childish selfishness forever.

But then there’s the opposite, the positive. There’s the side that negates everything I just said and pushes me to write even after so many months of avoiding it. It’s the fact that he still inspires me–it’s been five years since he died and at the thought or mention of him I want to keep pushing in his direction. I want people to know about him even though he’s not here anymore.

I can’t begin to explain how all this works out in my head but it’s all there. The anger, the guilt, the pain and sadness…but also the inspiration and happiness that, in spite of the bitterness, comforts me enough to share his story with others. He’s a character that the world deserves to know and when I’m at my lowest, I know that I can depend on a picture of his goofy smile to provide me with enough inspiration to last the day.

Anyways, while stumbling I came across this really interesting article…after being in Germany for quite some time now and hearing all the different “American/English accents” produced by the English-speaking Germans, you sort of start to wonder how English sounds to non-native speakers…this website has compiled videos from people all over the world documenting their impressions of the English language. Not only is it (really) funny–all Americans sound like they’re from the south, you know, the best portion of the country–but also somewhat informative in that…oh hey, English isn’t the only language in the world. Eenteresting.

http://amog.com/offbeat/english-sounds-nonenglish-speakers/

My favorites were the music video from the Argentinian band and the Bulgarian woman singing a version of Mariah Carey’s “Without You” or as she calls it, “Ken Lee”.

Now I will continue stumbling.

But anyways, without delving into those reasons–you’ll just have to trust me–there was something that happened in January that I’ve been meaning to write about for awhile…a simple incident of a day made better by someone’s innate kindness. Unfortunately, it was my day that was way crappy but thankfully, through cosmic intervention or something, I crossed paths with someone who bestowed upon me free hot chocolate and other goodies thus rerouting the entire direction of my day.

To make an unnecessarily long and complicated story short, my flight from America to Dresden included 4 different planes. The last one was supposed to fly from Frankfurt to Dresden and land me back in my modest and somewhat lonely dorm room around 10 am or so. Because of the terrible timing of a snowstorm, my flight from Frankfurt was canceled–important to note here, though, is that NO ONE TOLD ME. I sat sitting around the airport like a moron waiting for my flight until I got the idea 15 minutes before we were supposed to take off to, oh, I don’t know, ask why the monitors said nothing about my flight. Then and only then did I find out that the plane was permanently grounded until further notice. JIGGA WHAT!?

Morgan was unhappy and on the verge of tears (that’s just what happens after a million hour long stressful travel day ending with a canceled flight). After finally retrieving a piece of good information from the troll behind the counter, I raced all over the airport, without my luggage because it was still on my loser, grounded plane, trying to find the train station that was somewhere underground. I could take a train from Frankfurt to Dresden..AWESOME! It was just gonna take 5 hours. Eh…not so awesome.

After finally finding the god-forsaken train, I sat down and promptly put on my headphones to try and slip into a coma so I wouldn’t have to think anymore. A few minutes after the train left, a man tapped on my shoulder…he was older, wearing a blue suit and matching hat, and although my mind probably invented this last detail just because it would’ve been perfect and adorable, little white gloves.  It was the ticket controller and he was asking for my ticket, a routine procedure. I removed my headphones, pulled out my ticket, handed it to him and on impulse, decided to tell him that my name is Morgan. (“Wie ‘Guten Morgen’!” Translation: “As in, Good Morning!”…My name means ‘morning’ in German and it makes for a wonderful way of having people remember my name.)

You know how with some people you can just tell if you’ll get along? That’s how it was with this older gentleman…even though I was in a foul mood, his light-hearted manner put me immediately at ease and I just felt compelled to tell him my name because I was almost certain he’d get a kick out of it, which he did.

(Note: the following conversation was in German…well, broken German on my part, but I don’t feel like translating to and from German, so I’ll just write it in English.)

“O0o0ohh, Morgan, eh? That’s a beautiful name. I’ll call you Princess Morgan.” He was adorable, like a grandpa.

“Yes, you can do that! I like that name. I wish more people were like you.” This sentence took me awhile to say…silly pronouns and adjective endings and shiz.

“Hmm, so Princess Morgan, you can’t be from around here…where, then?” At this question, I was relieved…I relay this answer  so often I can say it very smoothly.

“Ah yes, my bad accent and poor German gave it away…I’m from the USA, but I’m here to work and to learn German!” At this, he seemed pleased and sat in the seat across the aisle from me so that we could talk more comfortably.

“Well, you’re doing better than most! Your German is not bad, you just need to practice…what’s that you’re reading there?” He saw the book of German short-stories peeking out of my bag.

“Eh, just trying to practice…” He seemed super pleased when I said this and quickly asserted that he would be right back..he had to go get something really quickly. I chuckled and was sort of confused about what made him jump up and scatter so quickly…but I just stared outside at the beautiful German countryside and felt my stress from earlier going away.

He came back about five minutes later with a small book…a book he would later describe to me as his project over the years. He was a poet! And a short story writer! And he wanted me to have a copy of his book so that I could better my German. His poems and stories were all about his job as a ticket checker and the unique experiences that he’s had (including, but not limited to, walking in on a couple doin it, some drunk rowdies, a few jerks, and even some nice people sprinkled here and there)–seeing that he was so happy with his life and his job made me grin…even though I can’t see myself wearing a blue suit, a matching hat, and checking train tickets for a living, I do want to be like this man when I grow up. He was so satisfied with his life and he made that clear in everything that he did. Way jealous…and inspired.

He (obviously) didn’t know that my birthday was only two days later and when I told him, he was positively tickled and promptly presented me with a piece of paper…good for one hot chocolate on the house! This man was slowly making this one of the best, most memorable days I’ve had in Germany.

We sat and talked for awhile about his life and mine but he eventually had to return to his work. I was content to sit with my hot chocolate and new book so he said he’d be back later and for me to enjoy myself in the meantime. If I needed anything, he insisted, I was to report to him immediately. As fate would have it, though, gravity began affecting my eyelids and the rythmic passing of snow-covered wooden fence posts outside the window coaxed me into a pretty sound sleep.

When I awoke three hours later, we were already on the outskirts of Dresden…and on my pull-down tray sat a new, fresh hot chocolate and a blanket lay on top of me to keep me warm. My new friend was looking out for me and even though it sounds really dumb, I felt all warm and fuzzy inside. He had single-handedly made my day AWESOME!

Before we arrived at the Dresden train station, he came through my car again just to say hello and to make sure I was awake. We talked some more and I told him about my blog and paintings and he gave me his card with his email address. I still have that card, the book, and this really cool light up pen that he gave me…I smile a little bit every time I see them.

As I stepped off the train in Dresden I was a little sad that our time was over but overall, I was happy to have met someone like him. He was contagiously happy, optimistic, and just generally brought the best out in people. If I could learn his secret one day…well, that’d just be swell. I’m not sure if he’ll ever read this (he confessed that his English wasn’t so good), but I do think I should try and contact him again. Oh, and if any of you would like a book of German poems, he said that he would love to send some to peeps in America! So uh, I can hook that up.

OH YEAH! His name was Joachim Hille…so maybe if you google search him, you can find his short stories and poems online. Not sure, but maybe it’s worth a shot?

Update: Just found his website at http://www.oyla11.de/cgi-bin/designs/buero_rot/index.cgi?page=index&id=&userid=11265733&starteintrag= …so check it out!

It’s odd. Even in the middle of the growing crowd of people waiting to get somewhere, that army cap never seems to go away; it stays near you, bobbing along with the rhythm of the masses. The cap is misleading too because it’s clear that it doesn’t even belong to an army guy. Instead, the only visible cues of life from that hat are grey, matted hairs springing out from underneath it. These hairs are sparse, but frequent enough to provide a little shade for the glassy-grey eyes that sit below a wrinkled, spotted forehead. All of these features exist undercover with help from that fake cap.

Its frequent persistence is a little unnerving, so you decide to move away. Being stared at is nice sometimes, but why from an old guy? Apparently the young, strapping army lads are at boot camp and you’re stuck here, in this dingy train station, with their homeless grandfather batting eyes at you.

As you walk, you take in all the other sensations specific only to this place. This place where trains come and go, people stand and wait, and musicians play for quarters with the hope of a big break. Sometimes it’s hard not to feel bad for them—nobody really gives them a second glance. You keep moving in hopes of escaping the hat and those eyes. The magazine stand looks informative enough, hosting dozens of papers and tabloids promising that they know the secret to the new Hollywood diet. It’s all very intriguing, but the sugar infused junk food they sell is what really grabs your attention. Rows of chocolates and sweets and sugars and all sorts of things that you were warned about as a child fill at least half of the stand—there are so many choices that it’s almost hard to decide. The magazine men are nice enough though. Give them a dollar twenty-five and they’ll respond with a Snickers bar.

But that cap still finds a way into your line of sight. You shoot a glance in its direction to see a full head accompany it. A pallid, shriveled face whose cheeks seem to have been shoveled out is standing among a huddled mass of shorter Asian people, and that face is staring at you. You groan a little inside your head. Just look away and maybe the face, the cap, and those eyes will look away too.

The train is still en-route and still winding around the tunnels of underground Boston, so you lean into a cold cement support column. It provides a nice backing for the enjoyment of your Snickers bar, which you promptly tear into. It relieves your sweet-tooth and is gone in less than a minute; the perfect mixture of peanuts and caramel and chocolate and whatever else they add into a Snickers bar to make it a Snickers bar offers an ideal retreat from the soot-stained walls of the old train station. Since it’s warm down here, the chocolate melts across your fingers. Your jeans are old and unimportant, so you smear the chocolate along the seams of the denim; it’s darkest there and not many people will notice the smudges.

The cement column cools your back for another five minutes before a robotic voice announces the arrival of your train. Throwing away the Snickers wrapper, you see the head that was once just an olive colored cap become a full torso. Standing behind a kid from some random family, he’s still staring at you. Another inside groan precedes the tasteless jokes your mind throws at you—hey, maybe it’s your sexy blonde hair that did it, weathered homeless men love blonde girls. Regardless of the stupid synapses your brain involuntarily makes dealing with the old guy, you’re very aware that you don’t want to spend your train ride with him. Nope, Mr. Army-Hat-with-Thinning-White-Tufts-of-Hair-and-Glassy-Grey-Rodent-Like-Eyes-All-Piled-onto-an-Oversized-Torso-of-Mismatched-Jackets-and-Vests, your company is not wanted on this trip.

As it whistles into the platform area, the blue stripe across the side of the train comes to a halt. To ensure that the man doesn’t follow you, you dodge a few briefcases and strollers and shopping bags to find the car farthest away from where most other people are entering. Stragglers and loners are the only ones in here. As soon as you step foot into the threshold of communal seats and poles, you head towards the most remote end and sit in the darkest corner because, surely, he wouldn’t notice you there if he were to follow.

After sitting, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the grimy window reflection across from you and shift from your thoughts of the old man to wondering why your eyebrows are dark but your hair is blonde. Weird. Someone told you once that you could dye your hair and get away without doing the eyebrows. Maybe you should consider it. People begin to slowly filter into your car now; there aren’t many, just two or three. A man who looks like he’s trying to regain his youth by letting his hair grow long and stringy, despite the receding hairline, sits on the opposite side of you in the middle of the car. An older Hispanic lady carrying groceries while trying simultaneously to keep a firm grip on her cane follows him into the car and sits on the opposite end.

Then you see it. You see the hat, the hair, the wrinkled forehead that introduces the glazed eyes, and the mismatched coats. You realize that your plan failed and this man’s eyes were obviously very attentive, regardless of being so glassy and empty. You’re sure he won’t sit next to you; it would be way too blatant and way too creepy. And then, proving you wrong for a second time, he sits directly across from you.

Question marks start forming in your head and you begin to seriously wonder what you did to make the gods punish you with this noticeably smelly homeless man. As your cheeks begin to flush, you blindly dig around in your thick messenger bag to find the book you intended to read during this innocent little journey on the train. Thank god you brought it, because otherwise you might have to spend your time darting eye contact with those huge obnoxious eyes and that hat and those coats and vests and that smell sitting across from you.

“Anomic Suicide” by Emile Durkheim—seems to be an appropriate choice of literary entertainment right about now. Flipping through the pages, you can feel the glassy eyes burning into the top of your head. You could always move to a different seat. No, that would be rude, you think. Besides, he’s lonely and, apparently, likes to stare. It’s fine; staring never hurt anyone.

Time passes and pages turn. You’ve done well avoiding his awkward looks and the train has almost reached your stop. Glancing up from the pages you see something slightly encouraging—he’s looking away! It’s about time, you think. But just as your eyes trace downwards toward the page again, something fleshy and out of place grabs your attention.

Like a light-switch, your cheeks flip from an innocent shade of pink to a fire-engine wash of red. For a brief moment, you try denying the fact that he’s holding his penis in his spotted, wrinkled hand. But it is undeniably his penis and from behind the shelter of an abandoned newspaper, it is undeniably being flopped around and massaged. The newspaper, which is strategically held beside his body, conceals his actions from the people at the other end of the car, leaving you as the only audience member. Controlling the urge to vomit, you force your eyes in an unblinking state to stay on the page, which coincidentally says something about “alienation from society.”

Mind freezing and eyes watering, you struggle to decide what to do. Should you ignore him? Should you move? Should you yell? Should you attack? The don’t-talk-to-strangers advice your parents gave you so many times apparently doesn’t hold strong because after a brief moment of contemplation, you decide to yell. An indecipherable string of words flies from your mouth sounding something like, “Whatthehell,putthatgoddamnthingaway! Goddamnit!Whatthehell!Icantbelievethis.” Unfortunately for you, however, since the glassy-eyed man’s private maneuvers were shielded behind the newspaper, the rest of the passengers were unaware of his enjoyment, making you look like an irreconcilable jerk for yelling at such an obviously sad and decrepit person. Unaware of how long you’ve been shouting at this desperate man, you are interrupted by the announcement of your destination as the doors unfold to the station.

Now above ground, the train is flooded by light of the setting sun; the dark corner of the car where you once sat is now filled with geometric patterns of light and shadows. Stepping onto the platform, you give a sideways glance towards the man only to see his olive green army hat and glassy-grey eyes peering at you from behind the newspaper.