Monday Morning
Jan. 24th, 2005 09:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
philthecowI slouch into position against the center wall of the Denville train shelter. The center wall is important because it is where the best heat lamp is. It is where the wind blows in from the missing wall, given, but it is where the best heat lamp is. The heat lamp on the right is temperamental, and the heat lamp on the left is always busted. I can say always; I've been using the shelter for five years now and I have not once known it to be working. I've certainly tried, since the left wall offers you the best protection from the wind. But it's never succeeded. Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other; god forbid they get their act together to give you the full thirteen.
There's nobody here. I hate it when there's nobody here; I'm afraid of rape and murder. It's better, even, when there is a potential rapist, because then I can gauge the distance and ponder how best to kill the bastard. When there's no potential rapist, I will be taken by surprise from behind. This is how I think.
The empty bottles are always stashed against the center wall, too. This morning it's a rotting yogurt and an empty Coke. I sink into a squat, my heels against the wall. My temples are pounding. I feel like a rotting yogurt. It's Monday morning. A gust of wind. I cough violently, almost throwing myself out of the squat. And cough again.
I vomit. It's a mess of saliva and lumpy yellow stickiness. Congealing. Shit. Shit. Shit. At least nobody's here. Shit. I hang my head, hoping to rid myself of any more demons before the train comes. Can't vomit on the train. Shouldn't have vomited here. Should have had the presence of mind to get to the snow. But I didn't know I was going to vomit. Oh. Right. That makes it better. I wonder if it will start to smell under the heat lamp. I vomit again. Might as well have it all in one place. And again. This one particularly yellow. Like decaying marshmallow Peeps. Motherfucking. It doesn't taste like vomit. It's just a really unpleasant cough. A sneeze. Throat mucus. Oh god. I count thirty. There is no more. I count thirty again. Two hacking coughs. But no vomit. It doesn't move much from its puddle. It's cold. Things don't move in the cold. It looks awful. Egglike, except without any substance. I sniff the air. Who am I kidding, my nose doesn't work right in the winter. But how do I clean up? I think, for a moment, that this is much worse than public urination. The Denville train shelter has seen a lot of that. Thank God nobody's here.
I go outside and grab two fistfuls of snow. Drop them. Off-center, I go get two more and drop them, aiming precisely. Squatting down so as to aim better. I won't tamp it down, I'll just pretend somebody shed snow off of their coat. I hope nobody steps in it. My hands are freezing. Why didn't I use my gloves? This is so fucking squalid. What do rapists do when their potential victims vomit? This is what death is going to be like, full of disgusting fluids and no place to put them. Uncontrollable. In semi-public. Nobody watching except the walls of the masses. Someday, I am going to die, and this is exactly what it's going to be like.
I get on the train. There's a BusinessWeek on my seat. Maybe if I read it that will stop my chest from hurting. I open to Schwarzenegger. I feel sick, again, and I put my head down and I close it and I can't vomit on the train so I'm not going to. I close the magazine. I can't read. I can't look out the window. I can't open my eyes. Shit! I can't close them, apparently. My god, Linus Torvalds has a smarmy smile. I hate him. I hate everyone. Close my eyes. Nausea. Open. Linus Torvalds. Movement. Motion sickness? I'm not going to vomit. The woman in front of me is talking. I miss my regular train people. I never want to take the nine-fifteen train again, I don't like these people. I do not like Linus fucking Torvalds. I throw the magazine across the seat and curl up into the fetal position. The pressure of my knees against my forehead makes my head hurt. I look up. "I'm sorry, Linus." My head hurts a little less. "I'm sorry, nice train people." I open my mouth without feeling sick. "I'm sorry, public train shelter." The heat lamps will melt the snow away and then it will start to smell. When I die, can it be warm and dry and unsticky? Please? Please? Please?
Sometimes the world is just begging you to quit and go home.
There's nobody here. I hate it when there's nobody here; I'm afraid of rape and murder. It's better, even, when there is a potential rapist, because then I can gauge the distance and ponder how best to kill the bastard. When there's no potential rapist, I will be taken by surprise from behind. This is how I think.
The empty bottles are always stashed against the center wall, too. This morning it's a rotting yogurt and an empty Coke. I sink into a squat, my heels against the wall. My temples are pounding. I feel like a rotting yogurt. It's Monday morning. A gust of wind. I cough violently, almost throwing myself out of the squat. And cough again.
I vomit. It's a mess of saliva and lumpy yellow stickiness. Congealing. Shit. Shit. Shit. At least nobody's here. Shit. I hang my head, hoping to rid myself of any more demons before the train comes. Can't vomit on the train. Shouldn't have vomited here. Should have had the presence of mind to get to the snow. But I didn't know I was going to vomit. Oh. Right. That makes it better. I wonder if it will start to smell under the heat lamp. I vomit again. Might as well have it all in one place. And again. This one particularly yellow. Like decaying marshmallow Peeps. Motherfucking. It doesn't taste like vomit. It's just a really unpleasant cough. A sneeze. Throat mucus. Oh god. I count thirty. There is no more. I count thirty again. Two hacking coughs. But no vomit. It doesn't move much from its puddle. It's cold. Things don't move in the cold. It looks awful. Egglike, except without any substance. I sniff the air. Who am I kidding, my nose doesn't work right in the winter. But how do I clean up? I think, for a moment, that this is much worse than public urination. The Denville train shelter has seen a lot of that. Thank God nobody's here.
I go outside and grab two fistfuls of snow. Drop them. Off-center, I go get two more and drop them, aiming precisely. Squatting down so as to aim better. I won't tamp it down, I'll just pretend somebody shed snow off of their coat. I hope nobody steps in it. My hands are freezing. Why didn't I use my gloves? This is so fucking squalid. What do rapists do when their potential victims vomit? This is what death is going to be like, full of disgusting fluids and no place to put them. Uncontrollable. In semi-public. Nobody watching except the walls of the masses. Someday, I am going to die, and this is exactly what it's going to be like.
I get on the train. There's a BusinessWeek on my seat. Maybe if I read it that will stop my chest from hurting. I open to Schwarzenegger. I feel sick, again, and I put my head down and I close it and I can't vomit on the train so I'm not going to. I close the magazine. I can't read. I can't look out the window. I can't open my eyes. Shit! I can't close them, apparently. My god, Linus Torvalds has a smarmy smile. I hate him. I hate everyone. Close my eyes. Nausea. Open. Linus Torvalds. Movement. Motion sickness? I'm not going to vomit. The woman in front of me is talking. I miss my regular train people. I never want to take the nine-fifteen train again, I don't like these people. I do not like Linus fucking Torvalds. I throw the magazine across the seat and curl up into the fetal position. The pressure of my knees against my forehead makes my head hurt. I look up. "I'm sorry, Linus." My head hurts a little less. "I'm sorry, nice train people." I open my mouth without feeling sick. "I'm sorry, public train shelter." The heat lamps will melt the snow away and then it will start to smell. When I die, can it be warm and dry and unsticky? Please? Please? Please?
Sometimes the world is just begging you to quit and go home.
