i rode a train that left the station at seven in the morning. there was a little greek man at the station waiting for the same train. he smoked cigarettes in front of a no smoking sign and played mr. worldwide at full blast out of a bluetooth speaker. the station agent told him to stop smoking and turn down the music. the little greek man said don’t ruin my day.
the train arrived and i repeated that to myself: don’t ruin my day.
i had bought a ticket the day before: departing from glendale with san luis obispo as the final destination. end of the line. a friend of mine who works as a bouncer at jumbo’s clown room gave me four grams of shrooms and said, “it’ll do you some good.”
he also thought having me meet him at his job would do me some good, but it only deepened the low-grade sadness i’d felt ever since my fiance left me. together six years and here i was, three weeks into a loneliness i’d never felt in my life. and the beautiful women dancing on stage at jumbo’s only intensified that loneliness.
so here i was, on a near-empty train heading north, the only other passenger in my car the little greek man who had blown through pitbull and was now jamming alone to wang chung.
i ate the four grams as we pulled away from grover beach, chewed them up with a complimentary apricot croissant and washed it all down with complimentary coffee that tasted like peanut skin.
they kicked in right as we pulled into the station. an anxious leg bouncing. a sensation that someone was pulling on my chest, a brief bodily reminder that the psilocybin is almost to your brain. it typically passes as the visuals start to wash over your reality. the sudden need to get off the train, to be out in the open. the train stopped with a jerk and i jumped out onto the pavement.
but as i walked from the train towards town, the anxiety lingered, deepened, became hands gripping my shoulder. pushing me down. i told myself it’ll pass. told myself i can handle this. said to the four grams in my body don’t ruin my day.
as soon as i entered the quaint, shop-lined streets of downtown san luis obispo, a sledgehammer made of grief and remorse and regret slammed into my skull, shattered through bone and squished my brain into a traumatic pulp. tears bunched up around my eyes and leaked out onto my cheeks. my face twisted as i tried to hold it all in, drawing the attention of all the couples around me.
because that’s all there was in this town: couples. happy. loved. walking shop to shop to buy things they’d look at together in twenty years and think remember when we bought this? couples eating meals together in french-like cafes. it was as if the whole dna of this town was made of two people in love.
trees above warped like wacky inflatable men in front of car dealerships. the ground crawled like ants escaping a disturbed hill.
i turned a corner to get away from it all and ran into a bridal party fawning over a wedding gown a soon-to-be bride modeled with blissful joy. i turned and ran up a hill, towards the sounds of a trumpet playing mexican melodies. and was led right into a wedding in progress, the newlyweds standing at the top of a staircase while their guests worshipped this new commitment to love.
i couldn’t escape.
so i found a park bench and sat and let everything fall out of me. grief remorse regret. an emotional mantra that intensified each time it repeated in my mind. grief remorse regret. why could i bring myself to a place like this but not someone who actually loved me? grief remorse regret.
the sledgehammer pounded me down over and over for the next three hours. and then it kind of just slid away like cold jelly off a piece of toast. all that crying left my face bloated and my eyes raw. all i wanted to do was sleep, but i still had a five hour train ride ahead of me.
“you look like a man who’s been beat to hell.”
i looked up. a black guy stood over me. flat brim hat with a feather in it. shirtless with a burgundy leather vest. tight slacks and wingtip shoes so sharp they could cut someone. his face wiggled like a bad photoshop filter.
i said “just dealing with something.”
he said he could dig it. he introduced himself as joe and started building me up with things like you look like a bad motherfucker and takes a real man to feel shit. i don’t know what brought him over, but i was glad he was there.
and then he pulled out his phone and called someone he called one of his girls. and then proceeded to convince her to get on a bus so she could come suck my dick.
she gave a stern i ain’t doing it and he yelled back bitch, don’t ruin my day.
i walked away while he argued with her.
it was a slow slouched trudge back to the station and i made it back on the train right before they closed the door. i found a seat and fell into it as the car lurched and left the station.
i closed my eyes, ready to sleep the whole way back to glendale, when i heard him.
the little greek man was back on the train with me, both of us alone and riding back to our lives. his bluetooth speaking softly shouted “good year for the roses” by elvis costello. i leaned back and let the train take me home, the sun setting in the pacific to my right. and all i could think was:
i guess i needed that.
Tex Gresham is a screenwriter and author of Heck Texas, Sunflower, and Easy Rider II: Sleazy Driver(s). His new book, Violent Candy, is releasing this fall from House of Vlad Press. You can find his other stuff at squeakypig.com.
Back Patio Press 