This is story number three in our ongoing series of short-short stories by Jocko Weyland. Again, nothing much else to say up here. Click below for the story—not sure what it's doing where you are, but we think it makes a pretty perfect rainy morning read.
Photo by Willa NasatirWe Can TalkWaiting for the A train at the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station on a summer Sunday around noon to go to work at the empty weekend office a Pakistani or Indian man in his 30s was pacing by the tracks looking a little agitated and then he came over and asked me where the A train was going. When I told him he said, "OK I ride with you." There was something unsettling about his manner and in a flash I thought, OK, this is it, this is how it starts. An intensely uncanny, very real feeling came over me that this was the prelude to a terrorist attack. Something was off and it all seemed so clear that this is how it starts with a nervous overly friendly stranger asking an innocuous question in a totally banal moment. That's when the shit hits the fan and ka-boom it's all over. A blinding flash, searing heat, melting flesh and body parts strewn all over the place. But nothing happened, though that didn't allay my suspicions about this potential terrorist from the Indian sub-continent. A few minutes later the train came and I got on and sat down in the half-empty car, followed by my new friend who sat right next to me. One of those situations when there are plenty of other seats and somebody gets way too close, and now that he was near I noticed he looked a little feverish with a slightly unsteady gleam in his eyes. Also he was wearing sandals that made it possible to see his long and really unpleasant-to-behold toenails. They were hard to look at, but I couldn't help staring. He proceeded to tell me his address and wrote down his phone number on my newspaper, which I thought was a little presumptuous and frankly, fucking weird. When he asked where I lived I told him without being too specific and he said, "You can come over anytime, we can talk. Do you drink?" That was a little unexpected, and when I vaguely and noncommittally answered, "A little" he continued to press his case with "You can come over and we can drink and talk. What happens then is just between us." I sort of nodded, like, sure I'll come over sometime so we can drink and talk. "You and I can be friends, come over and we can do whatever we want," and as it went on and on with similar invitations an obese woman sitting across the way ate a bunch of donuts. There were some lapses of silence between more entreaties while I fidgeted and looked down at the paper as if I was reading but I definitely wasn't able to concentrate on whatever was written in the paper of record that day. Those toenails were horrible to behold and he was practically on top of me but I felt sorry for him in a way because he was so desperately in need of human contact and I couldn't give it to him. That train ride seemed to go on for eternity, minutes stretching into hours, watching the flashes of light in the tunnel through the scratched-up windows where I could also see our reflections staring back at us, and at W. 4th, 14th Street, and 23rd Street the doors seemed to stay open for eons. Funny how when you're rushing for the train they snap shut in milliseconds but when you're on an uncomfortable ride with a twitchy seeker of the love that dare not speak its name possessed of possible terrorist intentions they stay open for what seems like days. Finally we got off at 34th Street and he followed me up the stairs out into the hot summer sunlight. As we emerged I started to walk fast and in a last ditch attempt he offered me a cigarette. A Dunhill, from the gold and red box. I said no thanks, but thank you, nice to meet you, but I better get going I'm late for work, and as I began to cross the street I heard his last plaintive appeal. "You call me sometime?"JOCKO WEYLAND
Photo by Willa NasatirWe Can TalkWaiting for the A train at the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station on a summer Sunday around noon to go to work at the empty weekend office a Pakistani or Indian man in his 30s was pacing by the tracks looking a little agitated and then he came over and asked me where the A train was going. When I told him he said, "OK I ride with you." There was something unsettling about his manner and in a flash I thought, OK, this is it, this is how it starts. An intensely uncanny, very real feeling came over me that this was the prelude to a terrorist attack. Something was off and it all seemed so clear that this is how it starts with a nervous overly friendly stranger asking an innocuous question in a totally banal moment. That's when the shit hits the fan and ka-boom it's all over. A blinding flash, searing heat, melting flesh and body parts strewn all over the place. But nothing happened, though that didn't allay my suspicions about this potential terrorist from the Indian sub-continent. A few minutes later the train came and I got on and sat down in the half-empty car, followed by my new friend who sat right next to me. One of those situations when there are plenty of other seats and somebody gets way too close, and now that he was near I noticed he looked a little feverish with a slightly unsteady gleam in his eyes. Also he was wearing sandals that made it possible to see his long and really unpleasant-to-behold toenails. They were hard to look at, but I couldn't help staring. He proceeded to tell me his address and wrote down his phone number on my newspaper, which I thought was a little presumptuous and frankly, fucking weird. When he asked where I lived I told him without being too specific and he said, "You can come over anytime, we can talk. Do you drink?" That was a little unexpected, and when I vaguely and noncommittally answered, "A little" he continued to press his case with "You can come over and we can drink and talk. What happens then is just between us." I sort of nodded, like, sure I'll come over sometime so we can drink and talk. "You and I can be friends, come over and we can do whatever we want," and as it went on and on with similar invitations an obese woman sitting across the way ate a bunch of donuts. There were some lapses of silence between more entreaties while I fidgeted and looked down at the paper as if I was reading but I definitely wasn't able to concentrate on whatever was written in the paper of record that day. Those toenails were horrible to behold and he was practically on top of me but I felt sorry for him in a way because he was so desperately in need of human contact and I couldn't give it to him. That train ride seemed to go on for eternity, minutes stretching into hours, watching the flashes of light in the tunnel through the scratched-up windows where I could also see our reflections staring back at us, and at W. 4th, 14th Street, and 23rd Street the doors seemed to stay open for eons. Funny how when you're rushing for the train they snap shut in milliseconds but when you're on an uncomfortable ride with a twitchy seeker of the love that dare not speak its name possessed of possible terrorist intentions they stay open for what seems like days. Finally we got off at 34th Street and he followed me up the stairs out into the hot summer sunlight. As we emerged I started to walk fast and in a last ditch attempt he offered me a cigarette. A Dunhill, from the gold and red box. I said no thanks, but thank you, nice to meet you, but I better get going I'm late for work, and as I began to cross the street I heard his last plaintive appeal. "You call me sometime?"JOCKO WEYLAND