Train Diary: Bike Car

7 Dec


I’m posting old unpublished material to draw page views for my new book Finally, Some Good News.


Sitting on the train. Uninspired. I think and feel nothing. Maybe if there were something to react to. Meaning: an attractive woman. If I were here for an hour and twenty minutes each way looking at pretty girls. There are no pretty girls who ride the train. There are especially no pretty girls who bike to the train and sit in the bike car. Only men, sad desperate men. The kind of men who bounce one knee up and down and don’t notice they’re doing it. They do it in restaurants too, I’m sure. Thump thump thump until someone gets fed up with the fork slowly moving across the table from the vibrations and says something. No one is attractive on a bicycle. Sweaty men, men with weird crusty backpacks, strange zipper and velcro covered bags made to look “futuristic” in 1994, beat up fanny packs in silver and purple, old headphones stolen from Jetblue. Men who chew their thumbnails. Men who wear hideous shoes meant to click into bike pedals. Unlaid, smelly men. And I’m one of them,. I stink constantly now. Used to have healthy musk that girls liked but now it’s a mildewy smell; bacteria swarming and dying in pools of stagnant sweat on my skin. My crotch.

An attractive woman would never put herself in this situation. She doesn’t have to. She has options. Not me. I gotta keep this economy growing.

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