Saturday, March 10, 2012

What is Failure? Part 1 by Justin Vaisnor


Pain persisted to shoot up Stu’s left arm as he carried his heavy luggage down the train station platform. The station’s high ceilings had skylights-with a sun shining through-which shone upon the gray concrete and light brown wooden benches. Stu trudged slowly burdened with a bulging sack of his own clothes and other effects over his right shoulder; and a large heavy suitcase full of books, magazines, journals and articles in the increasingly loosening grip of his left hand. The suitcase, heavier than when he first arrived in the city as he picked up a few more products: a collection of Dickens, some National Geographic zines, a few medical journals on the effects of smoking cannabis, and about half a dozen books of poetry. Now the normally rectangular suitcase looked more like a bumpy prolate spheroid and Stu, having missed breakfast on an already empty stomach, had a sudden appetite for eggs.
            Stu had skipped breakfast in order to reach this train in time, just as well though as he was carrying little money with him, for not one of the books he had brought along had been able to sell, and instead, he had blown what little money he had on buying more books. The problem is television and libraries, he thought to himself wincing as the side of the suitcase bumped into his knee, no one owns or wants to own books-if they read them at all! But he had no reason to complain, though this may have been another failed venture of his, it was his favorite by far. He was selling a product that was not only (in his opinion) useful to society, but enjoyable to use himself. Much more enjoyable than the ant farms-which had been broken open in his apartment after having first received them. Books were also somewhat lighter than kitchen cutlery, pots and pans. And he still had no idea what he was thinking trying to sell hard liquor made in his bathtub (that had turned into a three night binge and ending with a nasty wake up call in a stolen car just south of the border in lower California) Stu, lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
            Which is where he was headed just as soon as he reached his train, it stood down the platform to his right on the same rail as another train-bound later for some other city in this unfair country. The pain in his hand and arm made tears well up in Stu’s eyes, but he fought through the pain-BUMP!-the suitcase again slammed into his knee after he had taken a larger step and kicked the case as the train’s whistle sounded two cars and an engine away. His left hand was red and sore, sweaty and loose he limped and dragged his feet forward-Bump!-Bump!-the suitcase hit his knees at each step and he now wished he had searched for a trolley. He was now a train car and engine away from the nearest step for his train. Stu tramped slowly on, though it was as quick as he could bare to go-BUMP!-slip-BANG!-his suitcase hit concrete and toppled on it’s side, but since it’s sides protruded, it rested at a angle to the ground. Stu grunted angrily, shifted his bag to his sore and now useless left arm, stepped over his luggage, which he nearly tripped over, picked it up with his rested right arm using his legs to straighten upright-took a deep breath and continued to tramp on as fast as his legs could carry him-BUMP!-BUMP!-his right knee almost knocked into his other, he slowed his pace as he had forgotten the repercussions for striding forward quickly.
            An engine length away and the train started moving; Stu knew he could still make it! He quickened his pace-BUMP!-BUMP!-DAMNIT! He thought his knees were going to give out, his right hand and arm were growing sore from the swinging bumping and battering from the suitcase of books. The train was starting to gain speed, Stu was losing it, the speed, the ride, the stranding with no money, tears were welling up-out of frustration-he was steps away…
            He could make it if he left the books-he couldn’t toss the suitcase on for he had little strength left and the case was too heavy!-what then?-what! He knew one thing: Dickens, Hemingway, Melville, Plato and Shakespeare, Cervantes and Twain, even Ginsberg and west coast Snyder-they would never give up these books!
            Stu-with what little strength he had-puffed out his chest-swinging his arm back than forward while doing a little skip in his stride, he had enough power, enough speed, but he couldn’t direct his right arm to swing the case right toward the train and up on the steps. Instead, it hit the opening lengthwise and bounded out hitting the platform in front of Stu, who-due to his skipping stride-could not avoid the suitcase in time and tripped on it, falling flat on his face breaking his nose.
To be continued next Fiction Friday!

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