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The 6:10 NS is peaceful.  The radio doesn't play, and the lights are kept dim out of respect for sun.

We wear hard harts, chefs pants, and second hand scrubs.

In the barely daylight,  sleepy eyed or wired from last night's close, we begin to start the day.  To start it for the others.

To the shifts no one wants.  To the shit no one want to clean up, or clean up after.  To be convenient for the ones who only know convenience.

At least it's peaceful.  For the moment.

Until the cacophony of burner cell phones ring and the myriad voices shriek.  So many stories.  So many apologies, excuses, fights, endearments.   The mundane, the precious, the "do they even know everyone can fucking hear?"

We look aside, look askance.  Try to strike a conversation with a random stranger we sit next to six days a week, pretending we don't hear that Johnny is failing math and all I asked was to just take the roast out of the fucking freezer and yeah, she totally had an orgasm for the first time ever--I know because she told me.

We listen to the voices in our heads, the ones that sound like our fathers, our lovers, our kids, our parole officer, our one best friend who will not ever know THAT ONE TRUTH.  That truth that makes us.  Breaks us.  Drives us to perfection, destruction, addiction, to false salvation .    We listen to that stray notation, the lyric scribbled on a gas station receipt, the color memorized as the sun angles through and across and into shadows.  We listen to the whispers of our souls before they get drowned out by the jackhammer, the call bell, the clatter of pans and shouted obscenities in

We have dreams left behind on pillows, in the bottom of bottles, in the faces of the relatives we send money to every month, pretending we always have more than enough.

We have dreams.

We wear hard hats, chefs pants, and second hand scrubs.

We ride the 6:10 NS and pretend we still believe the American Dream.  We still pretend to believe if you work hard enough, anything is possible.  We pretend we are the people of Emma Lazarus, when we are actual the children of Dante.

We ride the 6:10 NS.

"All hope abandon...and have a nice day."

Comments

( 10 comments — Leave a comment )
mamas_minion
Mar. 29th, 2017 03:34 am (UTC)
I love the idea of a bis or train ride as a hell...A very American hell.

Edited at 2017-03-29 03:34 am (UTC)
adoptedwriter
Mar. 29th, 2017 12:45 pm (UTC)
This is great!
shadowwolf13
Mar. 30th, 2017 04:45 am (UTC)
Fantastic as always.
rayaso
Mar. 30th, 2017 05:10 pm (UTC)
Oh the joys of mass transit commutes! It is amazing what people talk about in public, sharing intimate details of their lives, often in loud voices. Maybe they don't care, because they won't see us again. I really don't want to hear how awful your mother is for not paying your rent when you blew all your money partying, or the status of your relationships, or anything all!
bleodswean
Mar. 30th, 2017 11:56 pm (UTC)
You have some truly gorgeous lines here.
eternal_ot
Apr. 1st, 2017 01:00 pm (UTC)
I never thought there was a story there but you brought this out so well. Loved it!

Edited at 2017-04-01 01:01 pm (UTC)
sinnamongirl
Apr. 1st, 2017 08:41 pm (UTC)
Nice work!!
dmousey
Apr. 2nd, 2017 02:30 am (UTC)
Interesting piece with some points that make one pause and go, hmmmm. Hugs and peace~~~
fodschwazzle
Apr. 2nd, 2017 08:10 pm (UTC)
Ditto on "A very American hell." It really is a cacophony--all the sounds without context, all the time. This is bleak in a way that everyone should be able to identify with.
roina_arwen
Apr. 2nd, 2017 08:35 pm (UTC)
I can read a lot of your nursing home stories into this - well done!
( 10 comments — Leave a comment )