A Short Story by Andy Adams and Nick Taylor

Man Under a Train

Preface: This short story contains depictions of suicide as well as vulgar language of racial discrimination. In writing this story, we the authors do not wish to encourage. let alone condone the use of such language but felt it was necessary in order to heighten the reality of hardships that people must face throughout their daily lives. Furthermore, we the writers do not wish to downplay these sensitive issues such as race, mental issues, and suicide.


Ok, so get this! I was standing at the train station waiting to get the hell home, when all of a sudden, I notice this group of guys givin’ shit to this black guy. So I’m thinkin’ to myself, “great, what a bunch of assholes.” Right then, I hear the train coming in and the instant it enters the station, the black guy jumps right in front of it and kills himself. Needless to say, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d never seen such a horrible sight before. There was blood and guts everywhere and yet that’s not what bothered me. No, I’ve been so desensitized to gore that it doesn’t affect me. What really got to me was how those jerks drove that guy to throw himself in front of a train.

You know, it’s just so hard to put myself in that guy’s shoes, impossible really. But how else can I feel empathy for him? I think I’ve gotta try though, ‘cause I can’t stop thinking about the whole situation. I mean, what would it be like to be discriminated against your whole life? Granted, I’ve been raised an Atheist in a very christian area and was occasionally hurt because of it, but I can’t really consider that to be equal to the level of discrimination, be it advertent or inadvertent, that the man had suffered his whole life.

...

I was sitting on a bench in the subway terminal, awaiting a train home after a long day of work. I was working longer and longer days to pay for my wife’s medical expenses. I had been reading the daily paper when the commotion started. I hadn’t heard everything they said but an argument was occurring. A man was shouting angrily at two business-types standing nearby. The terminal was nearly vacant, save a few people trying to catch the last train out of the city. The man was spitting as he spoke and gave menacing gestures. Despite his fearsome appearance the two men egged him on. I didn’t make it a habit to interfere in daily dramas such as this, so I observed them quietly thinking nothing much of the ordeal. After a final tirade the man looked defeated. He began to cry. I remember seeing the grief on his face, I didn’t immediately feel sorry for him, everyone had something to deal with on their plate, and mine was full. The man who had been standing close to the train tracks slowly turned to face them. He began mumbling to himself, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t hear him; the train had started its approach and was getting louder. Then, just as I was about to gather my things to prepare to board the train, the man jumped from the platform. The train had struck him right before he would have landed on the tracks. His body suddenly seemed in-human, doll-like as it was bent tumbling under thousands of pounds of speeding metal. I found myself standing at the edge of the platform witnessing his demise. His arm had been severed where he had jumped, and most of his body couldn’t be seen. There was what looked like wet trails of organs. From what I’ve seen in movies they appeared to be intestines. Only this was no movie. There was no cut away to save the viewer from the gore they had just seen from the wizards of special effects. This was something that had once been inside the man, living. Everything was dark, but with the train’s braking sparks they gleamed and I couldn’t be turned away.

…

Like I said, I think the guy probably suffered his whole life and these guys pushed him over the edge. I can just feel how horrible the guy felt as he stood there being verbally assaulted for accidentally bumping into one of them on his way to the boarding section of the train. I think the guy must’ve been like, “What the hell did I do to them?” The guy, we’ll call him Z, was probably just sitting there stewing, thinking about how sweet it would be to jack those jerks right in the face. Or maybe he just didn’t care, perhaps this felt to him like a vicious cycle, one with no exit, well except for one, I guess. You know, let me rephrase that, ‘cause it isn’t a cycle, it never has been. More like a vicious path, maybe a gauntlet? Going through all walks of life while suffering so many blows to every aspect of your being (It’s like POW! You can’t get a job here ‘cause you’re black, or WHACK! We’re gonna watch you like a hawk from the minute you enter the store!) So yeah, I think a more ‘appropriate’ description would be how Z had been fighting through a gauntlet his whole life, and it finally got the best of him.*

What irritates me even more though, is how those guys had no fucking idea who Z was, they just knew he was black and had bumped into them and that was enough. I can’t picture myself hurting someone just because of his or her skin color, the idea is completely ridiculous to me. So what made those guys think it was OK?

…

The self destruction I witnessed took me away from the natural, normal feeling you get from being in your own body. The next few days were a blur, I felt isolated from everyone. The images replayed in my mind a thousand times and over I began to question myself. Why did I stand and do nothing? Why did I rush to the edge of the platform to view this macabre spectacle? I had read about the man in the paper the following day. A short headline read “Man throws himself into train, causes delays.” How inconvenient. I read more. This man had a name, a family, a life. In an instant it had disappeared. How is he different from my friend, from my wife, from me? Why did they bother putting the man’s name in the article, it was apparent from the writing that the readers only wanted how he died and how long the train was delayed. This information was given first, then the witness accounts and the man’s name and surviving family. I hadn’t stuck around for the police to arrive. I had ran, taken an expensive taxi ride home, but it didn’t matter, I didn’t want to be held accountable for doing nothing again.

…

Yeah, so like I was saying, the guys aggressing Z, there were two of them. They looked like, you know, like your average Joe Blows. Nothin’ too remarkable about them, ‘cept their asshole demeanor. There were a couple of other people there, didn’t really get a good look at’em though. But then, after something as horrible as that happens, who’d be able to picture some random faces, hell, I can barely remember what those two white guys looked like.

…

Over a week after the man’s death, I still couldn’t make myself work. I felt useless and vegetative, nothing, it would seem, was able to bring me out of this grief. My life had suddenly become an ongoing dilemma on the lookout for the next problem; I became even more bitter than I had already been. I had convinced myself that everyone had problems, that mine weren’t any worse than the next man’s but suddenly that had all changed. I felt wronged, cheated; this unfair fate was taking advantage of me, giving me so much pain. I continually thought of my friend who had committed suicide while I was in college. Before it was hard to imagine the gruesome details of his death, but now they came to me when I slept. I saw him sitting in his car, pulling his shoes and socks off… crying. I saw him push the metal tube into his mouth. His toe slips down, and eventually rests on the trigger. The explosive force is loud and I can see it all. His face is now a piece of plaster, which I can only briefly visit at his funeral. These emotions come back to me now, as if they were there all along waiting for me to realize them. We were supposed to visit the night he had died; I was going to come back after finals. Instead, I had stayed to spend time with the girlfriend who had become my wife. I had always felt responsible, he was my friend, an intimate relationship that two people have, yet I suddenly felt this way about a stranger whose name I had to read in the paper. I failed to help him, even though I didn’t know his problems.

…


Sorry, I kind of went off on a tangent there, but like I was saying, there was an argument between the two guys and Z, luckily I was standing near enough to overhear what was going on.

It happened like this. At first, the two guys were just standing around talking amongst themselves until Z came up the stairs to the boarding platform. He was talking on his cell phone and because the guys were so close to the stairwell, Z had to brush up against one of them. As soon as he did that, the guys zoned in on him like hawks targeting their prey. Z said ‘excuse me’ and kept walking until he had reached the loading area for the train. Maybe it was just me, but I really think Z knew they were going to do something, perhaps he felt their eyes locked on him as he walked by, but whatever the case may have been, to me it felt like watching an impending crash. I had that feeling like when you’re dreaming and you try to punch something, or reach out for something, or whatever...but your arm just never seems to move fast enough, and the more you strain, the slower you move and the more defeated you feel.

…

Slowly I began to go to work. I felt the need to, being concerned of our debt and I no longer wanted my wife to worry. I think she too felt responsible for my state of disrepair. I took a bus to and from work, which took longer because of the need to switch lines and frequent stops. Still I couldn’t get myself to ride the train. I only worked half days and spent my afternoons in the park watching people go about their lives. They seldom noticed me; I began to wonder if they had become busy in their lives to avoid their own problems. I began to apply problems to them. This woman has an eating disorder. This man is bi-polar. This woman feels guilty about her abortion. That man was raped. They all smile and rush to where they need to be. Is it fair to say they are better off than me? This made me feel better, made me feel less alone, I was suddenly aware of their problems, and it was okay. I knew they were going through something as tough as I was; it was okay to not be okay. Despite all of this I would come home depressed. Did the only joy in my life consist of other peoples mutual suffering? My wife began to question my state of health, trying to get me to seek out help; “people would understand” she would say. But I couldn’t. The bills were high enough, and I would make her problems take precedence over mine. If I held on long enough my problems would be okay, my wife would get better, I would be able to work again, and I could become one of those shining faces you see in magazines or T.V. I couldn’t be resentful of my wife’s depression or our failing marriage. Those were her worries, I couldn’t fuel the fire. I am not resentful.

…

So anyways, like I was saying, Z went up to the loading area and the guys sort of trailed behind him. They looked really unsure of what they were doing, kind of like when kids are being pressured into doing something they know is wrong, but feel as if they can’t back down. One of the guys would jeer him, “fuckin’ nigger”, and his lackey would follow up with a, “yah, show us some fuckin’ respect”, and this went on for a while, until Z got fed up with it.
Out of nowhere, Z just turned around really fast and started diggin’ into the two assholes. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? I said excuse me when I walked by!” Lemme tell you man, when he said that, Z looked pissed! I could tell all the shit those jerks were givin’ him had really taken it’s toll and he wasn’t gonna put up with that bullshit anymore. This kind of scared the jerks ‘cause they backed up a bit, but you know, I think they kind of wanted him to react like he did. They wanted to piss him off and when he took the bait, they started reelin’ him in. “Better watch your fuckin’ mouth, boy”, “yah man…you shoved the wrong guys, nigger”.

…

I shuddered suddenly when speaking with a co-worker. She had, in an attempt to show her overwhelming frustration at work, hurt me without intention of doing so. How would she know? She couldn’t. I had missed work and used up many of my sick days, but didn’t specify directly why. In the middle of her complaint, images of trains, guns, and pills instantly invaded my head. Sick and abused, I wanted to scream at her. I could feel my face flush and I quickly finished the conversation without even thinking. I couldn’t remember much of it, only the words repeating over and over in my head, “if this server crashes again I’m going to kill myself.”

…


I mean shit, it doesn’t matter if you’re black, white, latino, or whatever, you’re a human being and human beings can only put up with so much crap until they break. And like I said, to be basically born with strikes against you, seems like more opportunities to snap.

And you know, I swear I saw his face change a little bit. Z looked like he knew how pointless arguin’ with those guys was, ‘cause they sure as hell weren’t gonna back down, and you know, he was one against two…those odds aren’t good. So then, the jerks kept harassing him and started circling him like sharks. Man, at first I was so glad when that train whistle blew, I thought his salvation had come. I mean they backed off a bit, stopped harassing him as much… and then he jumped.

…

The next day, the bus broke down along the way to work. I caught myself in an unfamiliar part of town nearby a zoo. Instead of waiting for another bus to come by I made my way into the zoo, feeling a little guilty about excusing myself from my responsibilities because of a minor delay. I walked around looking at the animals in a different way than before. I had always liked the zoo, thinking about how nice it was to have the remarkable ability to see these oddities without traveling to a distant land. I had always assumed these animals to be happy, being cared for so tenderly by volunteers and zookeepers. Oh how I had envied them, not having much to worry about, only feeding and bathing in the sun, watching the children and families pass by with an ominous gaze. But upon this visit I felt different. I saw the jaguar pace against his iron prison, unable to release his primal aggressions towards his suffering. I viewed a zebra feeling paranoid without the threat of danger he instinctively feels in the wild. I noticed hawks through a slew of chicken-wire yearning to roam. I watched kids as they held out their hands filled with food, as sheep glutted themselves at the chance for it, they weren‘t hungry, they’d been eating for hours, and it’s the attention that they craved. When I left the zoo I felt like I’d abandoned my new friends. They don’t know my name, but that’s what we are, friends.

…

Everybody looked like...I don’t know how to explain it very, well, kind of like…”what the fuck?” Everything happened so damn fast, everything. Like, the whole thing took about 5 minutes, you know. But it seemed like so much longer. I felt like I was trapped in time and space. I kept wondering why I couldn’t move...I wanted to help Z, but I don’t know, I just couldn’t.

…

I returned to work after the zoo, the sense of duty keeps me there. Even though I only planned to work a short while, I felt compelled to work more. By the time I was leaving the building, I realized it was late and that the buses had stopped running. I was gripped by fear. I could take a taxi home, but with my trip to the zoo, I didn’t have enough money to pay for the trip. I approached the station with caution, a bird, alert of impending danger but still progressing to food from a stranger; I was ready to flee out of the station which had become a grave beneath the road. Fists clenched, I reached the bench I had sat every other time I had gone home, now tarnished from the experience.

The station was nearly empty; I felt the sweat drip off my face as my mouth dried up. My eyes became fixed at a piece of cement. The man had been standing here when he jumped. Agitated, I walked around the station. Two trains had already gone by and I was still there. There would be only one train left before they ceased to stop here. I suddenly felt a sense of urgency and moved to the edge of the platform. I was awestruck. He jumped from here. A strange feeling came over me; I could only describe it as temptation. My world had returned to this point. I had seen suicides everyday since that day. I could see one now. But I didn’t feel dreadful like I had earlier. It was as if there was an intolerable weight sliding away from me. For the first time I felt empowered instead of debilitated. Suddenly I became startled, I hadn’t noticed, but a man had appeared next to me. He was a business-type, his white knuckles clutching his briefcase, his hair matted, he had tears swelling in his eyes. I heard the train approach. He finally looked up at me and I smiled. He away from me to face the oncoming train. The wind throughout the tunnel fluttered his hair towards the tracks. It was as if he was having a conversation with the wind, they were both saying jump.

We would like to have a discussion on the blog about this story and will also include our thoughts while writing, editing, and in general the whole process.  We're totally cool with having it forwarded on to Caitlin's webpage or anything else.

Thanks a lot,

Nick and Andy