The Obsolete Man

The 723 train was never late. A marvel of modern engineering, it raced through the city at eighty miles per hour. James Duran took that train every single weekday morning, and had for sixteen years. He took the 538 train home. Every weekday. He went to the same job, and he came home to the same wife, because he liked the routine. And he liked his life. It wasn’t the greatest life. It was the life that he had secretly hoped for himself, but it was a good one. He fit. And in the dead of the night, when everybody truly was alone, that was all a person could ask for. He had a place in the world, and he fit there. The 723 train. Every morning. James wasn’t the only one who took that train every morning. Or, that is to say that James noticed one other man in particular every single morning. He wasn’t a particularly tall man. He probably didn’t stand over five-ten. He had the sort of solid build that revealed a history of athleticism. James imagined he played varsity football in high school, and started for his college team no later than his sophomore year. He had dark hair and a great smile. He would have a great smile. James had never seen the man smile, because a person didn’t have much to smile about on the 723 train. But he had lines at the corners of his eyes, and around his mouth, and James imagined they were the results of wide, passionate smiles. He listened to an iPod with small earbuds, and he read the New York Times. He didn’t get off at the same stop as James. He was always still seated when James stood to leave, and occasionally, when he took the 538 train home, he was in his regular spot when James boarded. The man, his unaware traveling companion, had become the brightest spot in James’s life. He was beautiful, and he awakened desires that James had ignored for too long. His suits always fit perfectly. They fit like clothes should fit a man, accentuating every line. Occasionally, when James was very lucky, he caught a brief whiff of the man’s cologne. It was spicy and subtle and smooth. It suited him, like some strange alchemist had been tasked with the job of concocting the scent that could only be worn by him. As things spiraled out of James’s control, his morning companion became brighter and brighter. It was an unhealthy fixation, but what did it matter? The line had been drawn in the sand, and every day James rushed toward it on a 723 train at nearly one hundred miles an hour. A computer could do all the work he did, twice as fast, and at a fraction of a cost. So what did it matter that James spent most of his mornings thinking about the texture of the strange man’s skin, and the blunt shape of his nails? The only difference between that Monday morning and every other Monday morning was that James had already crossed the line in the sand. The train wasn’t taking him to Double Door Publishing, where he had spent the past twenty-five years of his life setting typeface and preparing items for the printing process. The train wasn’t taking him anywhere. But he was going to ride it one final time before he jumped in front of it. James positioned himself in the seat that the man always chose when he entered the train car. As soon as he saw James, he stopped short with eyes slightly widened. “Oh, I’m sorry.” James smiled. “I think I took your seat.” “No, no. It’s fine. My name isn’t on it.” James turned in his seat, as if to check. “It might be. What’s your name?” “Chad. Pennington.” “Nope, no Chad Pennington. But I’ll move anyway.” “You don’t have to do that,” Chad protested. “I don’t mind.” James slid to the empty seat to the left. “I’ve seen you on here before.” “You mean, you’ve seen me every morning?” Chad asked lightly as he sat down. The train lurched to life, the engines making a familiar, high-pitched whine. “That is what I meant. I wanted to introduce myself sooner, but you’ve always seemed so busy.” “Busy?” James nodded at the folded New York Times. “Reading.” “Actually, I only pretend to read this.” James arched his brow. “Why would you pretend to read it? Are you trying to impress somebody?” “I’m trying to hide the fact that I read this.” Chad lifted the flap of the newspaper, revealing a startlingly explicit yet whimsical book cover. A dark-haired man held another man in the clinch, while fires raged behind them. It looked like a gay version of Gone with the Wind. White text on the front informed James that the book was actually titled Gone to the Movies. “What is that? Gay porn?” Chad laughed. “No, it’s not.” “What is it?” “Art.” “That’s usually how people justify porn.” “True, but this is actual art. Well, parody. They’re all homoerotic parodies of movie posters.” “Homoerotic?” “Mostly.” “I don’t hear that word much in everyday conversation.” “People don’t use it enough. But I could avoid using it again, if you’d like.” James shook his head. “No, I don’t mind it. You look at homoerotic pictures every morning on the way to work?” “Not every morning. Sometimes I’m looking at actual gay porn.” James laughed. The sound startled him. It was rusty and unrecognizable, and it hurt his throat a little bit. But he didn’t mind. In fact, he wouldn’t mind another one. “I take it you don’t read gay porn on the morning train?” Chad asked. “No, but…” James checked his watch: 7:31. In less than twenty-four hours, this conversation wouldn’t matter. Connie’s anger wouldn’t matter. The endless psychological warfare that had characterized every moment of every day wouldn’t matter. The fact that he had no marketable skills and no future didn’t matter. He already felt palpable relief, and he was still almost twenty-four hours away from that release. “I don’t really need to read it. I have my own porn reel playing every morning.” “Nothing unusual about that. I mean, don’t most guys have porn reels playing in their minds?” “That’s what I’ve heard. I’d be interested in finding out how many of those mental porn reels star you, though.” Chad blinked, like he didn’t quite know what to do about that. The day before—any day before this—James would have felt the cold-hot rush of humiliation, he would have mumbled an awkward apology, he would have moved to the other end of the car, then gotten off the train and caught a taxi to somewhere else. Maybe the other side of the state. But none of this would matter in a little less than twenty-four hours. “I would say at least a third of the men who cross my path.” James released his breath. “A third? Are you being modest?” “I try. It’s part of my charm.” “And to think, I wasn’t even aware of your charming modesty when I cast you in the movie.” “You’re not really aware of a number things about me. How do you know you’ve got the details right?” “I don’t. Which is why I’m inviting you to join me at the Marriott.” James expected another stunned silence. He wasn’t expecting an easy smile. An easy smile that made his chest twinge. “This is a little sudden, isn’t it? Usually strange men on trains ask me to dinner first.” “I don’t have time for a dinner, unfortunately.” “Why not?” “I’m leaving town tonight.” “For good?” “For good. I wouldn’t have the courage to even talk to you otherwise.” “Where are you going?” Admitting he planned to go on to his final reward probably would not be a great seduction technique. “Europe. Italy, to be precise.” “And the last thing you’re doing before leaving the States is cruise for guys on the train?” “I’m not cruising for guys. I mean, if you tell me to f**k off, I won’t go to the next car down and find a new guy there.” “You won’t?” “No. I’m only interested in you.” “I think I’m flattered.” “The Marriott is only about a block from the Powell stop.” Chad nodded. “I know where it is. I do have to go to work, though.” James nodded. He had been prepared for that response. He honestly thought it would be the very first thing out of Chad’s mouth. “I’ve seen you every morning without fail. As near as I can tell, you never take a day off from work. You’re never late. You’re as reliable as I am…was.” “What are you saying?” “Take the morning off.” “You only want the morning?” “It’s all I’m going to ask for,” James corrected. “I mean, I can’t very well demand you give your whole day to a total stranger.” “Just the morning.” “Right.” Chad regarded him, and James could almost see the wheels spinning behind his eyes. The fact that Chad was even considering it was enough to make him happy—it was more than he had really hoped for. He had already received more from Chad than he had really hoped for. “Hold on.” James watched, his mouth running dry, as Chad pulled a small phone from his pocket and pushed the screen. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t even dare breathe, as the phone went to Chad’s ear. Several eternal seconds passed before Chad said, “Hey, Angie, I’m probably not going to be in until after lunch. Just reschedule my ten o’clock…uh huh. Thanks.” The phone disappeared and Chad smiled at him. “So, the Powell stop?” “The Powell stop.” James could barely speak, his throat felt so tight. For the first time, the 723 train was going to take him somewhere he wanted to be.