The train's almost to the last stop and my aching back is thankful. There's a race going on in the novel on my lap. Three more pages to go before the end of the chapter; with a little gusto I can make it, big and small picture implied. The highlighter's been working overtime with this latest read. Updike's unapologetic words hit hard like polished stones honed from the same primordial observations that I've made through my travels and travesties, loving corrections humbly offered by an unmet friend who's barely been underground long enough for his hair to stop growing: another one of life's great misses. We're mostly born to die again, hopefully encountering some kindred prisoners on the way. My luck's been less than enviable. My best relationships are traditionally of the posthumous persuasion. It's a blessing and a curse to have this passion, this search for the word, though we wouldn't have it any other way.
I flip a page and glance up at the young man walking down the aisle with a box of chocolates in his hands. "Two for four, three for five," he gently pleads in that modest voice only convincing when coming from a black male's soothing vocal cords. It must be reminiscent of their slave days. The kind, crooning Negro was harder to whip-- Darwin's theories of adaptation and survival personified. I reach for my wallet as he approaches. I know that I'll submit. Reparations for a crime my ancestors weren't here to commit. Besides, who doesn't like chocolate?
"Do you have change for a twenty?" I ask with the slow-tongued, naive drawl a cow would have if it could speak. It's a set-up, a gift from the gods of gullible men. He'll knock this one out of the park, and I can't blame him. It's my fault. It always is.
"How about six candies for ten?" he suggests, his soft tone slightly more forceful than before. "That'll buy three basketball uniforms and get me that much closer to the All Expenses Paid Vacation." He doesn't name the destination or the team. A good actor, a good liar, would've noticed this lack of detail and seen through his ruse, but I'm no Marlon Brando; more importantly, he's already got me on the run.
"I really only want three..." I futilely whine, my voice drenched in defeat.
He doesn't even have to say anything, just gives me those watery chocolate eyes. The man is no boy, but still he plays the helpless card. It wins the round expertly. Aces and eights plague my hand. I'm spread too thin to put up a fight.
"Give me ten back," I say as he lowers the box so I can select my unwanted candies.
"Any six you want," he offers as a consolation prize. I choose three peanut butter-filled affairs, though I know they won't travel well, and three bags of hard-shelled chocolate morsels.
"Thanks," he says as he raises his wares and makes his way down the aisle, not bothering to stop and peddle at any other seats. He's found his sucker. He's made his money. For the lousy six dollars he's spent on candy at a convenience store he's made another four in profit. I'm the saddest proponent of capitalism. I'm an honorary member of the NAACP. I'm a laid-off, broke philanthropist with a heart too big to say No. But I'm me, and that's how I want it. It's the one thing they can't take.
Brakes come on and slow the train. I shove my book into my bag and cram the candy in afterwards. It'll be squished or melt before it meets any mouth, mine or otherwise. It doesn't feel right to rise with the rest of the riders. My foolish contribution to the Harlem Hustler who got on at 125th Street has rendered me unworthy of beating any fellow travelers to the opening metal mouths at the ends of our train car. I've been duped and deserved to wait for my turn. Hustle-Man, of course, is far from the scene. I'm a joke he'll tell at dinner. I'm a pawn that fell for ghetto glory. I'm the reason he keeps swindling his way through the world: opportunity.
I decide to use the bathroom on the empty train since the one at the station's a slophouse and I have my walking cut out for me. In the brief time it took me to make water and wash my hands the train's already started to fill with new occupants headed in the other direction. By the time I wedge my bag through the double-doors all of the booths have at least one seat taken. Some of the passengers pretend to be sleeping so no one asks them to move their belongings and make room. The passive-aggressive grind rumbles on: shining, modern, efficient, unchanged.
As I make my way through the bustling city my bag begins to feel like it's carrying lead. According to law, though, it isn't. I trudge on faithfully en route to my destination, turning onto a side street to avoid the heavy human traffic. A well-kept homeless man counts change on the quiet sidewalk. He could easily pass for the Candy-Man's father, close to the appropriate age and overall demeanor. There's no smell as I walk by; he's one of the better survivors. Maybe they really are related. I turn and walk back towards him. It seems the right thing to do. Who needs that much chocolate?
"Want some candy?" I ask, surprisingly even-toned. I'm never that good at appealing to strangers. It comes off so unsure.
"Huh? Nah. No, thank you," he replies, though the comma between No and Thank you may not actually be there. He sounds as though I've bothered him. Maybe he lost count of his change due to my interruption. The bottle of hooch will have to wait that much longer. Food, it appears, is not on his menu, even the elusive free type of sustenance. It's freedom he seeks in the form of a glass flask. I can't begrudge him that, even with an uptown son that much closer to new basketball uniforms and a free vacation courtesy of a weak-spined tourist.
I do an about-face, re-find my stride, and smile down at the pavement. We don't all lace up dead men's boots. We won't all jump in the same grave. The world still has its innovators. Energy flows in accordance with effort. Home's not hard to imagine. And chocolate takes longer to melt than I thought.
Currently reading:
"Rabbit Is Rich" by John Updike.
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