Bangbang

by Mary Elizabeth Otte

Today Frank and I sat on the train bickering quietly in our own usual way and during a slight lull with my face turned to the window I heard a voice about halfway back in the car start to rise. "La la la la la la..." on and on; the pitch and strength dropping and rising, but underneath the voice sounding sweet and high-- though distinctly male. A smile so wide that it hurt my cheeks had spread over my face and I tilted my head and smiled slightly towards Frank. "What's this!?" I barely whispered, a shudder racking my body as I forced myself not to laugh, it really was a jolly tune.

"A drunk old man, someone mentally ill. Don't make eye contact."

"It sounds like a child!"

I went back to staring out the window. The song had become much louder (a Conscious Disturbance) by now and was accompanied by a "bang bang." This banging, I realized, was a product of the metal boxes put in next to every set of seats for your trash. The front of the box pulls forward making a triangle large enough for an empty soda or so, but is attached on a tight spring so you must close it slowly, otherwise you produce the "bang bang" now being heard throughout the train car.

It was marvelous, however. The rythm in which he was keeping the "La's" and the bangs together, still varying the depth of the "la's" but now with the solid loud of the trash receptical.

A gasp of a laugh escaped me and I involuntarily flushed, fixing my eyes on the eyes staring back at me from the window glass. Suddenly I realized that the banging had stopped and the erratic melody was now not just louder, but much closer. Playing off my ears at a more intimate distance and I risked a glance at Frank who looked fine tuned for fists if he must. This however didn't surprise me so I looked straight ahead to the two fat gentlemen facing us further up the car. I tried in vain to read their expressions. In vain because there they sat with their lolling mouths looking right at Frnak and me trying (also in vain?) to read our expressions.

Still close behind me the La la la la la's didn't cease, and I put together that he must be getting ready to exit the train, hence is standing so close behind me and the door. As the train slowed I waited to take my look. I knew it was best really not to make eye contact, he probably wouldn't understand that I understood.

When the train stopped and the air compressed doors hissed open I stole my glance and looked upon a hollow cheeked boy no more than 9 or 10, with great dark eyes and bushy dark hair. Then I marvelled that I didn't sense an ounce of the joy his song brought me, lingering with him.

© 2004 by Mary Elizabeth Otte

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