Tahji Dixon

Tahji Dixon

I felt like an adult in clicking heels and with my hands wrapped around a thermos coffee cup. I smelled doughnuts on the steps to the platform and it reminded me that my stomach was whining and eating itself. But then I thought about actually eating and I had to suppress a wave of nausea. lt was one of those Sunday mornings when you wake up, open your eyes and cringe. I woke up with my cheek on the edge of the mattress, my face tilted towards a trash can reeking of throw up. But it didn't stop me from getting up on time and walking to the el stop. Getting too drunk is never an excuse. I waited on the platform letting out clouds of breath that caught the light just right. The train heading in the undesired direction roared behind me and I felt the speed through my hair. ln a foggy state I sat down at a bench next to a woman, twentysomethrng and slightly overweight. She sighed, this is a beautiful day, she said it more to the rooftops than to me but I responded, yea. Small talk stressed me out so I pushed my

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headphones in, hoping it wasn't too rude. lt would make the wait less tedious. I always picked a song to fit the setting. lt made me feel like I was in the artsy scene of a movie, especially on a morning like this one.I liked to pretend lwas that kid in a movie with the tragic background, discovering an identity. Not that I wanted a tragic background, but it would sure make things more interesting. Way more interesting than going to a school where the attentron-cravrng boys take up drug dealing more for the image than the money. But most of those privileged douche bags probably do it to feel like a kid in a movie scene, so maybe l'm no better than them. Finally the green line arrived on our side. Out of habit I moved in the direction of the potential stopping place of the first car. I was taught that the first car is the safest. Then, following basic train manners, I let the people off before entering. I felt eyes on my steps to the first available window seat. I looked past my vague reflection to the passing views. We passed the Garfield Park Conservatory where

a group of kids struggled with a hula hoop in the parking lot. lt made me smile. Anyone watching me would probably think it was weird that lwas smiling to

myself.

We were now gliding through an area filled with abandoned factories and empty lots with weeds and glass bleeding through cracks in the concrete. There were abandoned two-flat buildings, some with singed windows. lt was the west-side, off-limit zone where I would never think of entering. But with all these images sliding past, I realized it was a pretty sight.These rusted cars and boarded up door frames looked like an adventure and they were, I guess you could say, romantic.You would only understand if you saw rt.

Although I felt guilty for this, I couldn't help but notrce that I was the only white person in the train car at this point. And then I questioned if I was in fact feeling guilty, or if I only told myself I felt guilty becauselknewlshould. With my headphones in, the conversations around me were meaningless. A man in a white sox hat and bears.jersey had a half-missing smile and used gestures with every word. A woman was cackllng into her phone, loud enough to seep through my music. Then a pair of eyes made contact with mine and I automatically turned towards the window. The bulging eyes belonged to an older woman who was alone, but her lips never stopped moving. You could tell that she wasn't quite here, that something was off. ltried to catch glimpses of her without her eyes catching mine, but she seemed to want to make eye contact. I froze up. This wasn't the first time I had shared a train car with the typical crazy old women babbling nonsense and obscenities to no one in particular. But they always intrigued me. I wanted to be genuine and not judge her to the point of being scared. I should be able to look her in the face and smile. ltold myself, she probably needs a smile. But I was taught to stay away from her and that's what I did. I already knew I wasn't genuine. lf I were a genuine person I wouldn't have taken into consideratron that face that I was the only white person.

At least I was aware...right?

I turned my music all the way off, but I didnt take my headphones out to avoid drawing attention to myself. With my music off, all the conversations throughout the filled car braided together. I tried to focus on the words of the crazy woman. lt was almost impossible because all the words were slurred and melted together. I kept my face towards the window but I left my ears open, trying to pinpoint the distinguishable words in the flow of babbling. The train came to a stop and I saw the reflection of the woman stand and move towards the door. For some reason I didn't expect her to walk like a normal person. Before the "doors closing' announcement she glided into the frame of my window in her ankle-length dress. Without an ominous pause or tentative step she moved steadily onto the railing. Before I could register her movements she had disappeared over the side.The howling and gasps were muffled, under water. I didnt want to pay attention to the reactions, it would be dishonoring. I closed my eyes and tried to imprint the memory of her face on my eyelids. lt didnt want to remember her by a form rising and falling over the railing. I didn't want to know the condition of her body below the train tracks.

tVy body started shaking and I scrambled to find my phone to call someone, anyone. Like everyone, I needed to make this about myself. I was no better than the crowd gawking over the railing. Wasn't this what I wanted? Sick as it sounds...Everyone wants an occurrence to break the routrne. Everyone wants a reason to point to an article in the Chicago Tribune and say,'l was therel' lassumed the world would freeze just now. How could things continue when everything seemed so backwards? But the train doors closed and everything rumbled to a start. lt was as though nothing had happened. lt made me realize how fast it all had happened. The metal poles, seats, signs and windows began to spin and my mouth began to water. I leaned over the seat with a gag.

%" &\c,b,

All I hear is your skipping record:

You know? You know? You know? No.ldon't know.

I don't know why l'm your amphetamine dump, Your drag-down chump, your compliment pump,

Your manifest slump, your last-chance jump, and why you're the lump in my throat when lt/om asks what the money she gave me last week has been spent on.

I feel like I can't escape this pseudo abyss You've dug me into. All I can see are the solar constellations. The realities of my life are there, But you won't let me see them. Your patheticness begs to stargaze And pull bait into this hole. It's the only way you can manage to feed it.

Love is a surreal measurement, Yet, you chant it as often as I blink.

NlgWiQ'&Npna

I can',t get over your waxy smile, Your wanton guile, your complaint pile, Your childish bile, your slipp'ry tile, And yet all the while I read into it like a gullible guard to my self-esteem.

I don't know you use me. I don't know why I let you use me

I remember Lying on my black bed spread at night, The one inviting me to sleep, It4y eyelids are heavy as elephants And my mind as scattered as a mosaic, Scratching my dark-toned puff-ball of a cat, And listening to your record scratch repeatedly

And now I hold this damaged disc in my hands,

5o fragile, really. One nudge and it could. . . Well, you know?

nn-aD

A Typtcal Eventng

(\cene opens to night time in an upper class English household. HEATHER sits sipping tea in her chair.The doorbell rings,) HEATHER: Dear, I do believe that they are back. (I\/IICHAEL comes down the stairs) IVICHAEL:Oh no, not again. HEATHER: I thought you had gotten rid of them yesterday. N4ICHAEL: I believed I had... HEATHER:Well, you obviously haven't done a good job if

they have returned again. N/ICHAEL: Darling, l'm doing the best lcan. HEATHER: I know my dear, but you should do a better job. It rsnt safe you know, with those people knocking on our door at all hours of night. I mean, have you even heard what happened to the Stevensons?

IVIICHAEL: No, I hadn't. HEATHER: Well those people had gotten at them. They turned over, you know. IVICHAEL:Quite a shame, really. HEATHER: Don't I know. Christine threw such lovely parties and had the most delightful taste in dresses. I\4ICHAEL: Ralph was a solid chap too.

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HEATHER: Such a lovely couple. (Both sit in silence for a moment) I\4ICHAEL:Oh well, not much we can do about it now, can we? HEATHER: No, nothing at all. What is this, the fourth house this week? IVICHAEL:The Gillians, the Yerks, the Regins, and now the Stevensons. HEATHER: Such lovely people. Wonder who is next? (Banging is heard) HEATHER: Darling...

A/ICHAEL: I know,l know. (He grabs a rifle from the wall and cocks it. He goes to the window and looks out.) HEATHER: (with a weary sigh)Who is it tonight?

l\4ICHAEL: Christine and Ralph Stevenson. HEATHER: Be gentle dear, I rather Iiked the two of them.

IVICHAEL: l'll try my best. (Shots are heard then silence as I\'IICHAEL enters) IVICHAEL: (cheeilly)fhat's done with. Shame they had to go zombie on us. HEATHER: (absently turning a page of her magazine) Such a lovely couple.