Power Out

We were riding the train again. We were always riding the train. You and me and the woman down the street with the ugly hair. Dressed in our pressed shirts, black shoes and relaxed slacks, we were standing too close and avoiding eye contact. It was the same ritual day after day, it had to be performed or the heavens would come crashing down upon our heads and the earth would belch forth streams of liquid fire.

We were compelled, and here we were again riding the train like a closet full of junk: the shaman in the corner performing his newspaper rites; the woman with the skin disease, whose role was simply too stand far to close; the older woman who engaged in a ritualized dance with other patrons, silently demanding their seat for herself; the revolving greek chorus of men who sneeze without covering their mouth or stink like they just soiled their pinstriped trousers--I'm not sure what their role is other than to weird me out.

But here we were again, all of us, and we knew each other by sight and role but not by name; we knew the contours of each strange face in the morning, the sloping eyebrows, the freshly combed hair, the red-rimmed eyes, and the lines that formed for a yawn as we swayed along.

We were upset when the ceremony was interrupted, as it was today. We were left without footing, without maps or guides or signpost in a strange unknown land. The train lurched. A woman let loose a noise of surprise. The gods were angry. They must be furious to interrupt us in our communion and praise. Another lurch and the strength of the train below and around us faded, its virility suddenly gone limp. The power cut out. The lights flickered death. We were left in an envelope of darkness, folding closed. Underground lamps from outside splashed through the windows in arcs of light, bars of sight. It quickly played over each face in turn , exposing it to the others and moving on quickly. It was like watching lightening dance across a cloudy sky at twilight.

People twitched uncomfortably. Their eyes moved. The shaman put down his newspaper. The old woman looked about in shock.

The train coasted for a few minutes along its rails without feeling, without desire. It suddenly lurched again, jolting us all. The light flickered back on and suddenly it was as if the curtain had come down again. The ritual resumed. The newspaper must be read or misfortune would fall from the clouds as it had in olden times. The man must sneeze uncovered or he will doom us all.

Sip your coffee sir, so that we may all be saved.