Cassius

He sneezed, and like a grenade, mucus sprayed out of his nose in every direction possible—a 360-degree fuckery taking place right in front of my eyes. The train was full, and I was being held up like a candlestick between five strangers, neatly snuggled. The five of us played ping pong with the morning air coming out of our defrosted nostrils. I glanced at my watch as if the hands would somehow move back and save me from being late for work.

There was an old man two bodies across from me holding onto a pole with a grip similar to that of an erotic dancer. One hard brake from the driver, and his wrist would detach from his body, sending him flying. A punk sat at eye level with the old man’s waist, scrolling on his phone. I watched the glare bounce off his bloodshot eyes as he remained oblivious to the frail man clinging for dear life. If he didn’t have earphones lodged into his skull, he might have heard the man’s knees pop in and out of place with every subtle turn. This kid sucked. If my hands were free, I’d unbuckle my wristwatch and chuck it at his stupid head. But I couldn’t—my right arm was neatly tucked between a man’s ass crack, while my left was in the pocket of my ironed trousers, still damp from the morning’s press.

With every stop the train made, more people marched in, and fewer marched out. Bodies started to mesh together, swaying left to right in unison with every turn. There was a beautiful woman standing two inches from my nose. “Where am I supposed to lay my eyes?” I thought, avoiding eye contact for fear of falling in love. I felt her eyes on me, like a spotlight shining on a brick of butter. I began sweating. I winked at her—or at least I tried to. What came out looked more like a muscle spasm.

She stepped forward, and the tips of our noses softly touched. The glare bouncing off her wet lips made me want to put my sunglasses on. Through my peripherals, I noticed a man with the nicest mustache I’d ever seen staring right at me. Did I know him? Or was he just another commuter bored out of his mind? I didn’t know who to give my attention to anymore. This metro ride was taking unexpected turns, convincing me I was caught in some sort of nightmare. The three of us stood there; a weird love triangle was playing out right in front of me, both of them seeking my attention. I was two stops away from work but decided at the last minute to step out of the train before both their eyes engraved an unpleasant memory in my psyche.

The train stopped, and I squirmed my way through puffy jackets and cheap cologne. The pressure of air coming through the doors blew the flaps of my trench coat back as if it were being controlled by a puppeteer. Why did I feel the need to walk faster than everyone else around me? What was I racing toward—misery? I walked up the steep steps, and the bright light coming from the fresh white snow painted my silhouette. At the top of the stairs, I bent over, hands at my waist, as though trying to kiss my toes. I took a deep and long breath, filling my lungs with cold air and whispered almost sarcastically “New York can be so pretty in the winter,”. The sun was bright, the sounds were familiar, and my mood was unpredictable. I took a mint from my coat pocket and cleansed my mouth from the humid air in the metro.

My feet directed me toward the office while my mind convinced me to book a flight and start a new life somewhere in Europe. The sky was shy from any clouds, and cars filled up the streets, cabs were being called by people who were just as late as I was. My breath was as short as my patience, and the city started feeling like a giant circus act. I stopped to catch my breath, sensing that a panic attack was developing at an alarming rate. While in a state of fear, I looked to my left and watched a man with shotgun holes in his pants eating a bologna sandwich. His eyes were glued to yesterday’s paper, opened wide enough to cover half his face, exposing a cheeky grin, the sunshine sat snug in the dimple of his cheek. He looked at me and winked, and I gave him a thumbs-up and quickly noticed my gloves had no thumb entries, so my thumbs-up went undelivered; it must have looked like a sideways hello. He patted the empty space on the bench, inviting me to sit down. On any other day, I’d decline with a smug scoff and a “yeah, right,” but today was different.

I sat down on melting snow, and the moisture quickly seeped through my pants, penetrating my boxer briefs. The thought of hemorrhoids began to preoccupy my mind. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, as if we’d known each other for over a decade. “I think I’m having a panic attack,” I replied with squinted eyes. “Breathe,” he answered back. I turned my head to look at him, and he was stuck on the newspaper, a deep grin—a grin that said, “I have all the answers; what other mundane problems can I help you with?” I faced forward, closed my eyes, and tilted my head back, letting the rays recharge my brittle soul as I took deep breaths in and out.

The passing pedestrians and cars covered and re-exposed my eyelids to the light, making me feel less alone. I enjoyed being still and watching at what pace life continued to move without me in the way. We move to the beat of the drum, but as the years pass, that drummer keeps playing faster and faster.

By now, it must have been 9:30 a.m. My boss was probably walking past my office to see if I had arrived. My phone began to ring, and without missing a beat, the man next to me grunted, “Turn that shit off,” resembling a fatherly command. I closed my phone and asked him where this anger was coming from. “Listen, kid, do yourself a favor and throw that piece of junk in the trash. Carry a pen and notepad, and whenever you want to talk to someone, write it down and tell them in person.”

“If I wrote down everything I wanted to say, I’d have no energy to actually say it,” I thought to myself, wondering if I even owned paper. “Let’s walk,” he said to me, getting up and starting before I could even reply. Naturally, I followed. What else did I have to do that day—show up to work? I don’t think so. He rolled himself a cigarette and sparked a match the size of a pencil, which caused an S.O.S.-sized flare. He was no stranger to the neighborhood; we stopped a handful of times as people waved him down from balconies and patios. Women, men, young, old—it didn’t matter; everyone knew him with a familiarity you only get from knowing someone your entire life.

“How are you so buddy-buddy with all these people?” I asked.

“Living,” he replied philosophically. I had no idea what he meant, but it didn’t matter. He said it with such confidence that questioning it would have made me appear dense.

“Where are we going?” I asked, looking around, trying to familiarize myself.

“I don’t know where you’re going, kid, but I’m going to the bookstore.”

Just by looking at him, you could bet your money that this man had read triple his weight in books. He wore an afghan around his head that reached his knees, his boots were loosely tied but never became a danger—the laces sat still, perched an inch out of the d-ring eyelets on his tan Danner boots. He smelled of a fully lived life. From the front, you’d guess he was in his 70s, but from the back, the way he walked with such certainty, you’d think he’d just graduated high school.

We reached the bookstore, and a lady leaning by the door smiled and wrapped her arms around him. They both smiled from cheek to cheek.

“Claire, this is… what’s your name again, kid?” he asked with his infectious smile still present.

“Cassius,” I replied, extending my hand.

“Do you want me to shake your hand, Cassius?” she replied charmingly.

Before I could answer, she gently pushed my arm down and gave me a hug I hadn’t felt since I was a kid. I didn’t want to let go. I felt wrapped in the world’s warmest blanket.

“I see you made another friend, Elias,” she said. Both of them together made the cloudy and cold weather feel like I was standing by the Mediterranean Sea with warm sand between my toes and a breeze gentle enough to lift the curls off my forehead. Claire held the door, and we both walked in, individually. The staff greeted Elias with warm smiles and perfectly timed winks. He introduced me to everyone as “Cash,” a nickname only my parents used to call me.

I watched them pace through different aisles, picking up paper that carried words—words that held more importance than the text messages I received on my phone. I didn’t know where to put my hands. Every book I picked up felt forced, and I didn’t know which section to read. Reading the back seemed obvious, but clearly a rookie move. “Do I read the first three pages and nod my head after placing the book back down?” I thought to myself, feeling the employees’ eyes watching the back of my head, waiting for my next move.

I looked over the aisle, and both Claire and Elias were at the register, paying for their books in cash—no card, no tap, just wrinkled, crisp bills. I followed them outside. Elias looked at me and, without saying a word, handed me a book. “We gotta go, kid. Maybe we’ll run into each other soon.” Claire gave me a smile and extended her arm. I almost shook it but quickly realized she was testing me. I smiled and shyly opened my arms for a hug. She stepped into my embrace, and Elias gave me a warm grin. They didn’t hold hands or cross arms; they walked as individuals who both had their own story, their own way of living.

I flipped through the book, and each page was empty—no words, no lines, nothing. Blank as the feeling I had before meeting him. The first page read: “I hear your thoughts from a mile away. For someone who barely says a word, you sure think a lot. - Elias.” I reached in my bag for a pen, opened the first page, and tried to decipher the chicken scratch that was Elias’s address. Under that, I filled in a quarter of the page and wrote: “It’s 11am on a Monday morning, and instead of being at work, you’re filling in a book that was given to you by a complete stranger. It’s cold…”

Just as I was finishing up my sentence, some tall man shoulder-checked me while yelling, “Keep it moving, asshole.” I continued: “It’s cold, and some offensive lineman just dislocated your shoulder. What a day.” I clicked my pen shut and stuffed it in my bag, followed by the book. “There’s no point in going into work today,” I thought, letting out a deep breath on my cold and wilted hands, warming them up for whatever may come my way.

Right then and there, smiling into the abyss while businessmen and women shuffled their long jackets and briefcases through peaceful pedestrians, I made a decision to make that day memorable—one for the books. I looked down at the briefcase I was chained to, holding it with the same grip as the old man on the metro. The weight of it pulled my shoulder down toward the concrete, the burden of my life neatly organized in this Italian leather briefcase. I saw my reflection in the shiny gold buckle keeping the front panel closed.

I worked in finance for a shithead boss who occasionally did bumps of cocaine in the ladies’ room and took two pumps of caramel in his oat milk-filled latte. I wanted what Elias had. For that hour or so of knowing him, I felt like a child discovering that melted cheese tastes way better than solid cheese. When you finally decide to jump off the swings and you can feel your ankles almost break from the shock, an invigorating feeling quickly follows—a feeling of being able to take risks.

I reached back into the bag and pulled out the book and pen, stuffing them into the long pockets of my trench coat. I merrily skipped toward a busted-up trash can and swung my bag over it like a wrecking ball, getting ready to release it into the sea of empty beer cans. My pocket vibrated. Whoever was calling didn’t matter. I slipped it out of my pants, placed it gently on the concrete, and with the heel of my boot, hammered down on it like a jackhammer, watching as sheets of metal and glass shattered into a kaleidoscope of fragments.

I stood there, letting the sun stand in front of my squinted eyes, my face introduced to warmth. I closed my eyes, and like a trust fall, I tilted slightly. Like the world’s biggest drop of rain, a pigeon flying overhead dropped a care package of shit on my right shoulder, and with the help of the cold, the paintball-sized turd began solidifying. Luck never smelled so sour.

I quickly realized that I needed caffeine. I’d usually take out my phone and spend 15 minutes or so figuring out which cafe would have the least amount of people, but that option was still shattered on the outsole of my boots. I walked straight ahead, for taking a step back would seem counterintuitive at this point in my life. I left the shit on my shoulder, reminding the birds flying around that I’ve already been marked. I made an effort to smile at the next person I crossed paths with, so when I saw her walking toward me, I began reciting, secretly, so as not to look deranged.

She stood as tall as the streetlights, wearing a red fur coat, giving the impression of a moving stop sign. A navy blue Yankees cap hid her pumpkin orange bangs, and her face was painted with splatters of light brown freckles. We were getting closer, and even with the cold air stinging our nostrils, her scent became apparent: cigarettes and too much fabric softener. I sent the signals on my face to commence the construction of a warm and inviting smile, but just as my face started getting to work, she looked right in my eyes and blurted out, “Hey man, do you have a gum I can borrow?”

How does someone borrow a gum? I thought. Was she planning to spit it back into my mouth after she sucked the life out of it?

“I have mints?”

“What flavor?”

“Mint” I mumbled.

She stuck out her hand and I opened the metal box of mints that sat in my coat pocket.

“You’re not trying to drug me, right?”

“With mints? I don’t think so, no.”

She looked at the array of mints as if they were all individually chanting to be picked.

“What’s your name?” she asked as she took a mint from the middle of the tray.

I thought about it for a second; a question that requires zero effort began to turn the gears in my mind.

“Cash,” I replied, with a question mark hanging from my eyebrows.

“I’m Lucy,” she said, eyeing me from top to bottom.

“Do you usually leave bird shit on your jacket?”

“Not usually, no.”

“Today must be a special day for you.”

“I’m starting to think so, yes,” I replied, trying my best to embody the swift and charismatic tone of Elias. We stood there for a few seconds, looking at each other, both wondering who was being more elusive.

“I’m going to get coffee if you wanna join me,” I said, breaking the silence.

“I’m late for an interview. That’s the reason I asked for gum. I want my words to smell as professional as they sound.” I didn’t know how to respond. My armor of confidence began showing spots of weakness. The thought of what to say was becoming a burden. I winked at her uncontrollably, as if the same bird had shat in my eye. She laughed, seeing right through my facade.

“I gotta go… but we should get that coffee sometime. Take down my number.” I reached in my pocket without taking my eyes off her smile and took out my notebook and pen.

“I don’t do phones anymore,” I replied, waving the pen and notebook like they were prizes on the Wheel of Fortune.

“What do you want me to write then?”

“How about a place and time?”

She took the items out of my hands and began writing down underneath the entry I had made earlier. She placed them back into my hands, and it read: “Jan. 12 - 10AM - Usagi - Be There or Be Square.”

“Thanks for the mint, Cash,” she said softly while walking away. I winked again, this time isolating the movement of my face to just my left eye.

“Great wink, Cash,” I whispered.