Click. An error screen.
“We’re sorry, an error has occurred. We’ll try to fix it as soon as possible.”
The bulging almonds in my face fucking hurt. I took two aspirins a few minutes ago, washed them down with a swig of beer. It’s flat, and I can taste a bit of disappointment in the 4.8% alcohol.
I hate being governed by numbers. Tuition: $45,000. Rent: $500. Hard drive: $150. Weed: $60. Jeans: $40. Wine: $1.79. Limiting factors may very well serve some disingenuous purpose in our society, but that doesn’t make them any less limiting. It doesn’t make my head hurt any less.
Rewind a few days ago, to when I was hitchhiking on a train track. It was night, although at times like that you can't really tell. I had just regained consciousness and had no memory of where I was or where I was going. My jacket was covered in rags that I guess I had stitched on their for warmth. Heat really doesn't matter when you're at that place, though. You're never cold or hot, it's never windy unless you're flying. Anyway, so there I was, walking along the train tracks in the midnight air with streetlights in a city on my left and a fenced off field to my right. Or was it a lake? I couldn't tell and didn't care.
I had my backpack slung over one shoulder. It was stuffed with possessions, although I didn't open it to see exactly what. I figured it was clothes, books, or something else not particularly important. The streetlights were getting brighter way too fast, so I started to squint. Then I realized a cabby train was coming slowly up behind me. I jumped off the tracks and stared at it as it chugged on past me, single car separated to a driver's compartment, an open passenger hold, and a little porch on the back. A few eyes stared back at me from in the dark, and I heard a voice shout, "Hey, want a lift?" Started running after the train as it moved a bit slower to wait up for me. Skinny white arms pulled on my hands as I ran parallel to the locomotive.
There were about four or five people in the compartment, all of them paying attention to me, or nothing at all. I felt like I knew them, and their familar faces jogged my memory. They were all about my age, dressed in blacks and greys and buttondown shirts and short skirts with boots and tank tops and cheap eyeliner and gloves and leisure jackets and polos and... They looked like they'd been there forever. This girl who looked to be about sixteen stuck out her hand and smiled, sunglasses pushed back on her head.
"Hey. It's good to see you," she said. "Sit back, the train's coming into Chicago now."
She looked like a Julia or a Liz. Always darting a stare around when she thought nobody could see, looking for approval in a colony of dead host bodies. One older guy with a ponytail and a black hoodie saw my eyes pass over him and nodded his head in salutation before leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. There was an electric ladybeetle buzzing around inside of a pickle jar glued to the ceiling. The bug was bigger than a normal one should be, and gave out a flickering yellow light. I figured it was genetic modification or something. A couple in the corner was sleeping, the man's head resting in his girl's lap. Her brow was tilted forward, covering her face in shadows as a streak of black hair dangled in front of her eyes. I saw somebody who looked friendly enough, a moody guy my age with short hair and angry (or maybe they were tired) eyes. He was looking out at the passing scenery, the endless cityscape and fences and lampposts as the cabby trundled along its winding way. My stomach ached.
"Hey, man, you got anything to eat?" I asked. "I forgot how hungry I was."
The guy looked back with a smile, "Yeah, sure. We have some sausage, some jerky. Oh, and some brownies, but they ain't the regular kind." The smile widened. I knew this mother fucker from somewhere, I knew that fucking smile. I looked over at Julia-or-Liz and saw her face in the yellow light. She looked like my woman. I turned back to the dude.
"What's the sausage look like?" I enquired. "I've got Germanic high standards." He pulled out a greasy paper and unfolded it to show me some sliced meat. It looked all right, so I took a few slices. Passed him a few dollar bills from my jacket. That's how this thing works. No words.
"Brownie?"
"Yeah. Give me two."
The dude took out a Tupperware plastic box and opened it, pulling out the most muffinesque brownie I'd ever seen.
"Just take what you want, man. Some doctor friend of ours has these crazy ideas about drug gentrification," the guy laughed. "I won't complain." The lines on his face were so delicate but obvious when he laughed. Those fucking eyes though, I felt like I had his name on the tip of my tongue and his number in my phonebook. Whatever. I took a bigger brownie and a smaller one. Took a bite of the sausage, took a bite of the brownie. A jug of merlot skittered out from the dark corner and climbed my shirt to latch itself on my mouth. It tasted cheap and shitty, I liked it.
I leaned back against the wall. The lady beetle had started to beat itself frantically against the walls of its jar and eventually must have squashed its tiny nervous system, because it stopped glowing and the compartment was dark again. Felt safe. Felt safety in numbers. These were the kind of numbers I could deal with.
