Tomato, Tomato

Tomato Tomato, Part 1

This story begins at 6:02 a.m. I was three minutes late for being one hour early.

I'm an undergrad at Collumbia in downtown Chicago and I was on my way to class when this particular incident befell my otherwise innocent commute. I had just switched cars to avoid a man who may-or-may-not-have-been my father. My family moved here two months ago and I’m still not used to living with them in such close quarters. Sorry, Dad, I couldn’t handle the polite conversation you deserve that early in the morning.

I sat down near the end of a row of seats and checked my watch to see that it was 6:05 a.m. and we were pulling into Western. Good. I would be just on time for being early. I have this minor fear of being late, but it’s not bad. I only have to arrive an hour early to every appointment.

It was quiet, the other commuters grey and sullen at the winter dawn that had gauged them from their beds too early and too cold. The only person near me was an older man sitting a few seats away, a paper bag of groceries resting against his leg. Green grapes and round, shining tomatoes peered out from within, so bright they seemed like cartoons against the stark setting of the train. We hurtled over the elevated tracks through the pre-boug. neighborhoods of North Chicago and into the thick of steel slanted skyscrapers. All was peaceful until we lurched to a stop at the next platform.

“This is California.” Intoned Siri’s older cousin as the heavy doors slid open. In walked the darkest, crustiest, most sexually ambiguous form I had ever seen. It looked more like a moving trashcan than it did a person.

Don’t turn right. Don’t turn right. Don’t turn--

It turned right and sank into the row across from me. Shapes I hadn’t recognized as plastic bags peeled off its sides as it let out a long sigh, sinking back towards the windows. I could discern the outlines of a hood, but other than that, it was clothed only in grime, sort of like that monster lurking on the edge of your nightmares or the members of KISS after a year-long revival tour.

I wouldn’t have minded if it hadn’t been for the smoke.

It drifted into my nostrils and I coughed. My first thought was that a fire had started on the tracks and why hadn’t they started to evacuate us? My second thought was that the rest of the city had already burned up from a freak factory explosion and we were the only Chicagoans still alive, which is why no one had contacted us. Only when I had stopped panicking for long enough to glance around for the source of the smoke, did I notice that it appeared to be coming from the depths of the creature sitting across from me. Was that a human being in there or could it be a bomb cleverly disguised as a moving sack of blackened potatoes?

I felt trapped, cornered. I checked my watch. 6:25 a.m. I was on the verge of throwing aside my 90 cent Dunkin Doughnuts coffee and my appearance of timidity by tackling the smoking creature when the old man beside me spoke.

“There’s no smoking on the train.”

Aha. An arm that resembled a mouldy scarf detached from the creature, brandishing a cigar in surprisingly pale fingers. A cigar. Really? On the cta? Then again, how many times had I thought those words since moving to Chicago three years ago? Fresh pee on the seat, heroine needle in the corner, a three year old child picking its nose then grabbing onto one of the bars--

The creature responded by taking another drag. It reached into one of its bags and drew out a bottle of Tropicana no pulp orange juice and a fifth of Skull vodka. I shuddered. The last time I drank the stuff was when I blacked out and vomited on my roommate’s bed freshman year. I moved out of embarrassment soon after.

The creature opened the juice with a crack and placed it on the floor between two blocks (boots). Smoke still swirled in the air. Without drinking any of the orange juice, it opened the vodka and started pouring it into the bottle.

Diluted orange liquid poured onto the floor in a rush.

“Woah-- what the hell are you doing?” The man beside me shouted.

The presumably-a-person ignored him again and picked up the orange juice bottle, still dripping pulp and poison. With one hand, it rested the still burning cigar on the seat. With the other, it lifted the bottle to its mouth and drank.

The hood slid back to reveal a nest of matted hair concealing pale skin and a dry mouth, sucking down the liquid.

The man beside me stood.

6:50 a.m. I was nearing my stop. But I still had ten minutes left to witness the fight looming before me.

To be continued...

#fiction #humor #cta #trainstories #Nathanielbrown