two stories

A Night Ride, I

A few years ago I would ride my old bike to my friend's house and back after my night classes. I would get home at 10, and ride north on Santa Anita. Since the ride was around 40 minutes it gave me the perfect opportunity to check out new albums. I would get to my destination tired, grab dinner and watch bad late-night TV or good movies, talk about nothing, say a series of odd inside jokes and go home around 130 AM. Even though a few parts of the ride around the freeway were sketchy, my bike was in bad enough condition to incite pity from the vilest of characters. But I never took the wash home, as that would be asking for trouble.

On this particular night, my bike had been squeaking more than usual. The chain had fallen off on the previous ride and had been making noises since. Despite this I felt confident, I had a new Naked City album whose name I cannot remember, "In the court of the Crimson King," and Wilco's "Being There." For the entire ride, I was alone with the early October wind.

I listened to half of "Being There" on the ride north so it followed logically that I listened to King Crimson on the way back..


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Brown Noise

On my usual filing route I take the subway Downtown and then back to the office. I enjoy the metro as much as anyone else--I get to my destination quickly and I can usually listen to music, read or play a game on my phone while being transported. Common sense encouraged  me to remain vigilant through the monotony despite the relative safety of the mechanocaverns. I am thankful for this shred of common sense.
I entered the rail car, second or third to the last on my way back. I sat and read "White Noise." Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young guy, no older than 18, wearing an oversized brown hoodie. Before a minute had passed I was almost certain he was on a stimulant: the telltale tweaks told me everything I needed to know. I tried keeping an eye on him even if he was behind me. At every stop he would walk to the opposite exit of the car jitter and mutter to himself, cover his face completely with his hood and hold his head as if he were trying to comfort himself.  At the W&V stop, he walked back to my natural line of sight. He repeated his ritual again, expect this time he pulled a metal object out of his backpack; I could tell because he clanked it against a railing as he was pulling it out. At W&N, the nest stop, he walked towards the front again. As he walked past me this time I caught his scent: dirt, sweat and unwashed clothes, much like a homeless person but not quite as pungent.

I turned my head slightly and caught the sight of the object in his hand--before I could make out what it was a guy (holding out a skateboard in front of himself, as if ready to strike or defend himself) said in a loud and clear voice: Why do you have a knife, my boy? He quickly replied, in an aggressive tone peculiar to Angelino schoolchildren: Because, in case anyone gets around me. I confirmed that not only was this armed individual intoxicated but he was upset and scared. The guy holding the skateboard said: You should get off the train. The vagrant replied quickly once again: That's the point. The two of them exited the subway, but on a twist to his routine, the knife wielder re-entered through the rear doors. He passed by me once again. I had sat through this dialogue in a shock;--fear isn't the right word, but I was in a heightened state of alarm. Other people had already left, but I stayed inside expecting him to stay at the station. The automated voice began to speak: PLEASE CLEAR THE EXITS, THE DOORS ARE CLOSING.


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A Night Ride, II

Things took a turn for the macabre when I began my homeward playlist with Naked City. About 10 minutes into the ride, still well into the suburbs, I decided to switch over the "In the court" to lighten the mood of the ride.

Perhaps it was the name of the band, the music I was listening to before it, the fact that I was out sometime after 2 AM on a less-than-reliable bike without lights; but I could not get myself to listen to that album. Fear isn't the right word, but I was in a heightened state of alarm. I heard the entirety of "Being There" that night. Needless to say, I never listened to "In the court of the Crimson King" entirely.