You wouldn't realize it was the smell of fish until you saw him. A glance after passing the yellow line on the platform and looking around at who you were going to be spending the next three stops with isn't enough to get his presence. You have to get his scent first. Before that initial visual contact, a pungent mix of oils and ocean made you think the train was leaking some fluid, or that a snoozing rider dropped their boxed lunch. When you sit down and look around once more for the source of the smell, the odor's owner becomes easily apparent.
He's a head shorter than the shoulders of the next tallest person posted near the opposite doors, but stands rigid straight and the train sways him more for it as speed picks up, causing the rocking motion to release gentle squeaks from rubber boots he's wearing either because he just got off the fish monger floor or because he's in a constant state of preparation for a flood he knows will come, someday--soon.
Whether or not he knows he's humming is just one of those mysteries that you want to keep in the realm of the unknown, along with if lizards have emotions and the details of how you were conceived. Is he chewing gum or just licking the back of his teeth? This falls into the same category. From the way his jaws moves to gnaw Schrodinger's gum, you know this is the brand of old man that chews with this whole head. It would be a challenge to eat a meal in front of him for the first time and not stare, engrossed in how the construction of humans, while often varied, have enough difference from model to model to produce a set of bones that would allow this type of movement. There's nothing appealing about it, but you can't help but watch the action as it unfolds, as if he has a traffic accident stuck to his face.
The water of his pale brown eyes is probably alcoholic, something like Korean grain alcohol with ethanol. The wrinkles around them are thick, though not plump, looking more like time took an knife to his face years after his body would be capable of healing over the scars. Old age never gets any easier. He is rickety but stable. Looks like he will fall, but will probably be the last to go down, partly because of the weathered resilience that comes with age and what you're sure was a hard life, but also due to small stature and low center of gravity. There are plenty of reasons for everything. This man is beyond reasons. He is only decisions. He might as well not have a path, and perhaps goes towards no particular destination, though his movements forward are definite. When the train reaches his stop, he gets off, and pushes his knees and elbows past the suits standing in a phalanx before him, and while people notice, no one will say a word.
He will most likely continue to bite the ankles of anyone else in his way up the escalator and stairs, cursing youth (i.e. in his mind everyone but him) for being the unforgivable combination of slow and stupid. He will then go to--not the convenience or liquor store--but the cigarette shop to buy the cheapest brand of generic sake to take home and spice with shochu and save it for right before dinner, as he knows it to help with the bowel movement that shall soon follow. The path home could be walked in pitch black, and has, first two days after the bombs fell, then walking back from the wreck of a work truck while carrying two bags of celery seeds that couldn't be left behind, and again when returning back from his wife's grave for the first time. Though really there are no more thoughts as to the road, only actions. One gets beyond thinking with experience and all of living becomes obvious and simple. He'll prepare Thursdays meal, a mix of rice and sweet potatoes and the meat that was closest to expiring or most freezer burned; meaning Friday's meat will be the next in line for closest to inedible. Some people would say that habit is a problem. He hasn't been sick in seven years, so he hasn't had a problem in seven years, and he'll be the first to tell you being sick is the only problem a person can have, or is allowed to have, because everything else is just a sickness on the mind you've done to yourself because you've desired more than you needed. The radio will blare constantly from the workbench, though no one's listening unless you turn it off and notice the silence is too loud. The dog will keep barking because that's what dogs do, and he'll keep whacking it with a slipper because that's what he does. The dead flowers will stay in their vase because there's not another place they should be. He'll keep burning the leaves in the hollows of a metal box that was once a desk, and he'll mask the smell with vinegar and fish oil because otherwise the ash's scent stains your heart, just like his father said, and the next day he'll ride the train still smelling of that musk, and no one will say anything. Although perhaps they will reflect and remember that there are many types of strength.
He's a head shorter than the shoulders of the next tallest person posted near the opposite doors, but stands rigid straight and the train sways him more for it as speed picks up, causing the rocking motion to release gentle squeaks from rubber boots he's wearing either because he just got off the fish monger floor or because he's in a constant state of preparation for a flood he knows will come, someday--soon.
Whether or not he knows he's humming is just one of those mysteries that you want to keep in the realm of the unknown, along with if lizards have emotions and the details of how you were conceived. Is he chewing gum or just licking the back of his teeth? This falls into the same category. From the way his jaws moves to gnaw Schrodinger's gum, you know this is the brand of old man that chews with this whole head. It would be a challenge to eat a meal in front of him for the first time and not stare, engrossed in how the construction of humans, while often varied, have enough difference from model to model to produce a set of bones that would allow this type of movement. There's nothing appealing about it, but you can't help but watch the action as it unfolds, as if he has a traffic accident stuck to his face.
The water of his pale brown eyes is probably alcoholic, something like Korean grain alcohol with ethanol. The wrinkles around them are thick, though not plump, looking more like time took an knife to his face years after his body would be capable of healing over the scars. Old age never gets any easier. He is rickety but stable. Looks like he will fall, but will probably be the last to go down, partly because of the weathered resilience that comes with age and what you're sure was a hard life, but also due to small stature and low center of gravity. There are plenty of reasons for everything. This man is beyond reasons. He is only decisions. He might as well not have a path, and perhaps goes towards no particular destination, though his movements forward are definite. When the train reaches his stop, he gets off, and pushes his knees and elbows past the suits standing in a phalanx before him, and while people notice, no one will say a word.
He will most likely continue to bite the ankles of anyone else in his way up the escalator and stairs, cursing youth (i.e. in his mind everyone but him) for being the unforgivable combination of slow and stupid. He will then go to--not the convenience or liquor store--but the cigarette shop to buy the cheapest brand of generic sake to take home and spice with shochu and save it for right before dinner, as he knows it to help with the bowel movement that shall soon follow. The path home could be walked in pitch black, and has, first two days after the bombs fell, then walking back from the wreck of a work truck while carrying two bags of celery seeds that couldn't be left behind, and again when returning back from his wife's grave for the first time. Though really there are no more thoughts as to the road, only actions. One gets beyond thinking with experience and all of living becomes obvious and simple. He'll prepare Thursdays meal, a mix of rice and sweet potatoes and the meat that was closest to expiring or most freezer burned; meaning Friday's meat will be the next in line for closest to inedible. Some people would say that habit is a problem. He hasn't been sick in seven years, so he hasn't had a problem in seven years, and he'll be the first to tell you being sick is the only problem a person can have, or is allowed to have, because everything else is just a sickness on the mind you've done to yourself because you've desired more than you needed. The radio will blare constantly from the workbench, though no one's listening unless you turn it off and notice the silence is too loud. The dog will keep barking because that's what dogs do, and he'll keep whacking it with a slipper because that's what he does. The dead flowers will stay in their vase because there's not another place they should be. He'll keep burning the leaves in the hollows of a metal box that was once a desk, and he'll mask the smell with vinegar and fish oil because otherwise the ash's scent stains your heart, just like his father said, and the next day he'll ride the train still smelling of that musk, and no one will say anything. Although perhaps they will reflect and remember that there are many types of strength.
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