What is Failure? Part 2

Stu tasted blood and saw red stars go black and only the pain didn’t reside as he opened his eyes to watch the train continue down the track. And now it was too fast, even if he was ten years younger he wouldn’t make it.

            Just as he lifted his head to watch his ride leave him bleeding, aching and penniless: laughter rang out beside him-“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve laughed.” A young woman said behind her hand, she was still smiling and writhing with mirth looking at Stu’s state. She had dark skin and Stu noticed first that-though filled with laughter after his fall-her eyes were kind.

            “Shou’da made i’,” Stu said digging in his bag of personal affects for a sock to stuff up his nose. “Not ash spry ash I used’a be.”

            “Well you have a great attitude,” the woman said controlling her self and perking up on the wooden bench.

            “What’cha mean?” Asked Stu choosing his black sock and pinching his nose as he stood up.

            “I mean most people would have swore or gotten noticeably upset about missing their train, and not to mention breaking their nose-come sit here for a moment, I’ll watch your case,” she sprung up and swiftly lifted the suitcase to a standing position while Stu sat on the bench in the middle of the platform. The woman turned to him and continued, “Some people would expect help immediately or swear or spit, curse this station the people of the world and-whatever in the world you have in here?”

            She patted the bulging suitcase, which she now sat on, Stu noticed no ring, and spotted her figure being thin and light. The suitcase would tear at the zipper and seams should he sit atop the case. “Books,” Stu said simply massaging his forehead. He asked “Ho’ bad my nose bleedin’?” “You’ll live. And I feel like that’s your attitude, just the feeling you give off. Hughes?”

            “Sorry,” Stu responded.

            “Do you have any Langston Hughes?” She said her hands resting on her thighs holding her bag. Her dark green skirt hanging down just below her knees

            “James Ba’dwin,” Stu replied.

            “Shame, were you trying to catch an appointment? I bet you were, you looked in a hurry. But it’s not so bad to miss something, who ever said it was always good to be somewhere of some imaginary importance, being anywhere-being alive!-that I believe is important,” the woman said, looking pleasant in her wisdom and melancholy sitting atop words written by people that must have shared in forming that piece of knowledge. She shoved that aside, perked up and asked, “It’s useless to ask you where you were heading, but what are you going to do now, were you trying to sell these books earlier? At that book fair?”

            “Sure, n’Y was there yest’rday,” Stu felt safe and fascinated by this woman. Young, he thought, but has age in the way of maturity-independent, he would describe her, but something was wrong with her-and by wrong I mean, wronged: “’nstead of sellin’ some of m’ books, n’Y bought some.  N’Y’m a great sales’an,” she laughed. Stu asked, “Nyu don’ have ta catch’a train do nyu? Or are nyu the t’pe of person ta sit in pub’ic placesh and watch the world go round?”

            “Neither, although I like to do the latter,” she smiled brightly-although, again-Stu noticed a pain behind that. But she was pleasant to look at in her dark blue blouse, her hair was loose and flowing-just above her shoulders. Stu noticed his shirt had some blood on it’s collar, the sock was half drenched too. The bleeding had slowed substantially, only a lesser degree of pain remained.

            “M’ name’s Stu,” he proclaimed.

            “Jessica,” she replied. “The hiding-from-her-rotten-boyfriend-Jessica, well I wish it to be ex-boyfriend. He likes to follow me you see, but I gave him the slip and have been here for an hour. Where were you an hour ago? I could have used a book then.”

            “’Ow abou’ a book now?”

            To Be Continued (I apologize but Part 3 will be in two weeks!) Justin Vaisnor

-Next Week's Fiction Titled: "Voters"

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!