Short Story: Pessimistic Optimistic

Short Story: Pessimistic Optimistic

Pessimistic Optimistic

I’m sitting here on the MTA (Maryland Transit Authority), middle section, westbound for Downtown Baltimore. The estimated time of arrival, or so our operating engineer says, will be around fifteen to twenty minutes. I’ve been counting ever since he first made the announcement. It’s already been half an hour, and I’m getting pretty tired. I wish that I lived closer to the city. I wish that I could take my car without having to venture on the highway and risk breaking down in the middle of I-90. I wish that I didn’t have to keep lying to my parents just so that I‘m able to head down there every Wednesday without them breathing down my back.

My parents wonder why I love the city so much, especially Baltimore City. “It’s the second most dangerous city in the United States, you know.” they would always protest. Exactly: SECOND most dangerous. That means that somewhere out there in big, beautiful North America there lies another city in another state twice as bloody and twice as crime-ridden than Charm City. I’ll take my chances.

This ride isn’t going as smoothly as the last couple that I had endured. It isn’t as empty either. I half expected most of the cars to be vacant, void of people and their annoying presence and blessed with the sweet sound of peaceful silence. The kind of silence you can fall asleep to with much ease. However, today is a crappy day.

When I woke up this morning I tripped on one of my old skateboards and fell face-first into my dresser cabinet, cutting my face just above my left eye. There was no more Cap’n Crunch and my little sister, Alexis, had drunk the rest of the milk. I nearly missed my bus, and when I got to school some kid came up to me and started saying crap, claiming that I had said something about his mother. He punches me, I punch back, we get sent to the office, I get a referral; he gets nothing and walks away.

Today is a crappy day.

In one corner of the train there is a bunch of Suits carrying briefcases and chatting away on their cell phones about the “Johnson report” and the “meeting on Friday”. Suits always have Johnson reports and meetings on Friday. I should know. My father is one of those 9-5, beer-drinking, work all day, sleep all night, don’t cook dinner, don’t do crap kind of guys.

In another corner there’s a small group of Goth kids sitting in a semi-circle, listening to BauHaus and droning on about how miserable life is and drinking imitation energy drinks you can only find in Hot Topic. The Gangstas in another corner of the train are busy throwing craps and poking fun at the Goths, even though they themselves look like they just stepped out of a bad Spike Lee film.

Finally, in the only other corner of the train sits the Regulars, including myself. We’re the say-nothing, do-nothing kind of civilians who simply board the transport and leave when we’ve reached our stop. That’s what I’m doing, anyways. The dude right next to me looks better suited to be hanging out with the Goth kids rather than hanging out with us peds. He’s got all these piercings and studs and chains and stuff hanging off his face along with half a Mohawk one side of which is painted pink and the other side blue. Tattoos of the Satanic influence run all up and down his arms, liable to shock those who are wrapped up in the influences of the Christian God.

Not me, however. I don’t believe in God.

The dude has these huge headphones that completely cover both of his ears, which are also quite pierced. The headphones are silver and black with little skulls and crossbones on each side. They vibrate whenever music flows through them, equalizing its balance. I notice that he’s listening to the new Type O Negative album. I love Type O Negative. I lean over and tap him on the shoulder like a little kid and he lifts off his headphones, giving me this evil sneer as he does so. I ask him if that’s the new Type O Negative album and he verifies, lightening up almost instantly. He and I begin discussing about Peter Steele - the vocalist and bassist - and his enormous height, the controversies between the band and women’s equal rights groups, and the possibilities of the members calling it quits and going into way-early retirement.

The dude has a high-pitched, squeaky voice, despite his grotesque appearance. He also owns this weird, crooked smile that is high on one side and low on the other, and teeth that have probably never seen the bristled end of an Oral-B toothbrush. It freaks me out, but I try my best not to stare. I ask him if I could listen to the album for a couple seconds. He gladly hands over the headphones and the CD player which they’re attached to, and I hook them to my skull and begin listening. It’s some of the best music I’ve heard all day, maybe even all week.

I’ve been mainly hanging out with my friend Robert for the past couple days, primarily because he just recently scored some really good pot from his uncle in Florida. Rob’s a nice guy and everything, and one hell of a conversationalist if you catch him in the right mood, but his taste in music leaves much to be desired. Much, much to be desired. He’s one of those “juggalo” idiots that sit around, get high, drink massive quantities of booze, and listen to Insane Clown Posse all day long. He wears the over-sized baseball jerseys and cock-eyed caps with ridiculously huge golden chains hanging around his neck with the Hatchet-Man symbol plastered everywhere on his person. He insults me just by looking at him, and I’m white, for God’s sake.

So, you have to understand. All week long I’ve been deprived of my punk and metal, and instead I’ve been fed ear-fulls of “chopping up gang-bangers” and “having sex with dead prostitutes” and “shootingdecapitating random people” and all that other Mr. Rogers crap. I love my violence, but there has to be a limit drawn somewhere. Gory and perverse lyrics have that amazing ability to be awesome one second and totally lame the next. I’ve been yearning to listen to something different. Type O Negative satisfies, and I find myself immersed in the guitars and drums and synthesizers and sweet, harmonious vocals. It all connects perfectly.

Fifteen minutes later I arrive at my destination, which happens to be in the general vicinity of Camden Yards and the Convention Center. This is the heart of the city right here. This is the Baltimore that the suburbanites see whenever their mothers and fathers take them to watch the Orioles or the Ravens play. This is the Baltimore that the high-class businessmen and businesswomen see whenever they come to attend one of their many international finance meetings. This is the Baltimore that the tourists see before they decide to head off to the Inner Harbor and grab a crab cake while watching 18th century reconstructions sail out into the murky, smelly waters of the Chesapeake.

This is not my Baltimore, however. Far from it. I know what lies beneath this docile scene. I think everybody does, but they don’t wish to acknowledge it. They know what this metropolis is capable of. They know how it can devour you. They know how it can spit you back out.

I get up out of my seat to leave and the dude stops me, asking for his headphones and CD player back. I look towards the front of the car and spot a cop facing my direction, a weary look upon his face. I realize he’s concentrating on the dude. Who wouldn’t? He does sort of look like a hardened criminal, doesn‘t he? He possesses that sort of intent which is visible even in the eyes. You don’t even have to speak to him to know that he spells trouble. I use this to my advantage.

I refuse the dude his belongings, stride past him, and scurry towards the cop, explaining to him how this weirdo next to me is trying to steal my headphones and CD player and claiming that they’re his. The copper takes the bait and proceeds towards the dude, asking him - politely at first - to leave me alone. When the dude resists, starts cursing up a storm and throwing fists everywhere, that’s when the officer gets pissed off and clubs the dude in the face with a billy bat - I guess that’s what they call them - and locks him into a pair of handcuffs. This is about the time I force myself off the train, even though I always do enjoy watching a good scuffle whenever I’m able to witness one.

I exit the car and onto the platform, and I watch as the train glides away, taking the hostility along with it. I curve a smile and shove my hands into my coat pockets. Not only am I back in the city, where I feel like I rightfully belong, but now I also have a sweet new pair of headphones and a CD player to go along with it.

I walk out of the station and I start heading north to meet up with my drug-dealer.