By Clovis Jaillet
I met a dead man on the train back home.
He wasn’t dead yet, so I suppose just dying. Though there wasn’t much of a difference at his stage.
Having just finished college, my body and mind were sore—I was very much looking forward to going to my childhood home and taking a week (or month) to do nothing but recharge. It felt like I had nothing left to give.
I took a seat diagonally from him—we were in one of those four-seat clusters, two facing two, and I sat on the side facing forward. Facing backwards on trains always made me queasy, I guess the old man didn’t mind. So we were across from each other, him with his tan shirt and pants and me with headphones and a bag of chips. As I chomped; he grumbled, a few times, as old people tend to. He didn’t speak to me or lift his drooped head once, not even looking out the window or to me (thankfully so, as he would without a doubt find me peering at him from behind a too-salty chip, watching his chest rise and fall unevenly.) He seemed frozen, stuck, like every bone and joint in his body had found their proper resting place, and were content to begin fossilization. A disembodied voice told the passengers that, though the crew was passionately sorry, the air conditioning was faulty, and the train would soon be hot. And muggy. It was the first real day of summer, that early bird that creeps into the nineties after a strong rain and blindsides entire cities with its sweat-inducing aroma. Normally I don’t mind the heat, but the air was grossly thick, and the old man began to thaw.
The labor of breath grew more tedious with the passing miles and the old man’s throat rattled like dry bones. From his temples, sweat dripped down the side of his face, leaving faint trails over his wrinkled, motley skin. Train stops came and went, each a milestone of the man’s remaining life.
His eyes were closed and I found myself convinced that images of youth and of health were flashing before them. He would be seeing himself sixty years ago, perhaps himself just out of college with bright hopes and meaningful promises. With a girl, the woman he tells himself he is going to marry. Maybe he would be seeing an unforgettable, but routine, day—at the river, sun-drying, panting after a long swim in the cold, fast moving water. He would not mind the way the rocks poke into his back of scratch his skin, his body would be sore but not the way an old body is sore, but the way a young one is—happily exhausted, greedily drinking in brief moments of respite before bounding towards another adventure. He would go hunting that weekend, as was fashionable, with a group of fellow graduates—though they would barely hunt, spending their time mostly drinking and laughing about how free and good it was to be.
Closing my own eyes, I allowed images of an older me to replace myself; the old man and I traded places. I felt the worn curve of his back on my own, the brittle unease of every bump or grind of the train’s course, the seamless joining of tired mind and body. My brain would ache how my back would ache, my bones petrified as my mind when staring back on regrets and life-defining fears. I would put all of this aside when I receive a phone call—my granddaughter is to be born. I would respond the only way I could, by buying a one-way ticket for the next day. When the train curved around the last bend of forest before entering suburbia; when the smell of coffee drifted in from the café cab, and the smell of sweat muddied it; when the sun exhaled into setting and the windows were caked in grime, I tasted my own mortality.
My stop came, I was pulled from the future, and I pictured the old man and I saying goodbye as I got off the train. He would look up for the first time and take my hand in both of his. I would thank him for the reminder, and he would thank me for my time.