With some spiked cider in one hand, the snow falling outside the window and a house that is all to quiet to not be brewing some brilliance, I bring you a story from my holiday season:

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even to mention the parents were completely passed out. In anticipation of what I thought the season was to be, the air brought someone out of me, altruistically speaking. I would have normally been seeking asylum, but then suddenly I found myself reaching out to something more and new outside me.

I boarded the train, with a new bag, that is often mistaken for real leather. Call it the vegan inside of me, who is drowning in the meat. I love steak and had it for a wedding recently, where stolen moments are now posted on facebook for your viewing pleasure. I wonder if the tribes had some validity in staying a part of your soul is taken in each click. I saw that on Zoolander once.

I accepted my trip when I was leaving the train and was “bombarded” by three rebel rousers, and by “bombarded” I mean we shared a narrow escalator with people pouring out the sides. We had our room however, because we had enough time to exchange glances from two levels of steps and I could actually hear him telling me I was pretty.

I guess when he saw that I had no fear in my eyes at something that exists above the pitch of daily life, we then exchanged a bottles’ glance and he offered me the moonshine I was looking at earlier. Mixed with cool aid, he yelled, “Does anyone wanna to take a sip of my piss?” As though to repel the ants that commuted and caused people traffic.

I looked to the left saw cops standing, and something about the air didn’t smell right, so I left quickly to the platform and asked a kind plumpish lady with a pleasant demeanor for a cigarette. I thought I could wait it out here since the trains hadn’t been posted. There is something classic about train stations that wait to post track numbers. I wondered if someone in the crowd was experienced enough to anticipate what track the train would be on which day, and I waited.

I even crave a cigarette while I tell this story. I wait for the three backpackers.
I took notice of two as the third seeped into the background. He reminded me of a tortured actor. I waited, my hands were cold, and in rushing to shove them in my pockets, something breaks the cigarette that was there. I go to the train. I stop and wait. People are running on, and/or by me so I move to the side, between billboards as to not get pushed. I board the train, and I hear a familiar voice say behind, “Oh good, there you are.” I am celebrating my reunion, and that my short term memory is still intact and I could remember the rebel rouser’s voice. We sit across from each other and trade stories. That moonshine they offered earlier, gets passed around in a circle and sipped among sterile evening commuters. It’s the 6:15 train.

Bull lets me looks at pictures and tells me he travels the country off of his disability checks. He can not read and he can not write, but he manages to write some things down on a piece of paper. I am noticing to my right that his friend, with the dirty yellow jacket is squinting to read the paper. “I’ve been on the streets since I was 15.” 13, maybe…I was too in keen with the visual stimulation of his storytelling.

He looked so weathered after time in jail. I see, a picture – and I see the shirt he wears, and I say to my friend, “Oh, you have a souvenir.” He stops the two companions, to gain their attention and makes me say it again. We bond…the details from there out are not as necessary as those I can remember with clear images and vivid colors that have been showered in layers of dirt. There was something soothing about seeing that much dirt. I am reminded of something in that moment, and invited on their journey, and travel through memories, photos and stories.

The man in the yellow jacket sings louder, I hear Red Hot Chili Peppers which gave a name of the auras they were releasing. The plastic 2 liter gets passed, and is almost done.

I am taking
big sips.
“A drinker I see.”
I smile.
We laugh.

I can not remember the moment before or after mase and knives were brought up. I can remember Bull bringing up the topic casually after he reveals his multiple felonies, arrests, and his mug shot.

I really liked his mug shot.
There was something soft in his face
that I could barely recognize these days.
The memories that follow exist with my own souvenir.

A barter in good faith, for protection on the journey we shared in that singular moment.

Untitled: Cassandra Fradera-Lopez