I think I've mentioned this chap before. There is a man on the train sometimes, who blows my mind. He is sooo weird. His head looks like an illustration from some Victorian-era, children's storybook. In the book, his name would be Allistair Winslow Thurston-Sackville and he's got a fairy castle in the garden where only nursey can find him, under the rosebush . Except here's the thing, he's at least 30 years old and his head is gigantic but he looks like a 9 year old, Victorian British boy. He's also at least 6 feet tall and weighs about 90lbs with skin so pale, it's purple. I've seen him on weekend trains, meticulously chewing a sandwich that looked to be prepared by a mother, his mother, I presume. His face is so skinny, the sandwich bit sticks out like a squirrel with a cheek full of acorns. Chew, chew, chew, chew, chew chew...each bite gets a thousand chews, bobbing up and down behind his cheek as he stares off into space.
He looks to be very, not bright, as it were. He walks, with a slight limp, taking tiny slow steps, although his legs are ridiculously long, with his belt cinched tightly at his tiny waist, holding up his mother-bought, navy chinos.
Recently though, I've been seeing him on the morning train. Reading a printout of some sort and looking dazedly around. His facial expression never changes from one of an expressionless poker-face with vacant eyes. Creeps me out. I know he must be mentally challenged but why is he so devoid of emotion?
Like any sane person would, I tried to follow him for as long as I could this morning, from the train. I had to pause and wait frequently, in order to be able to stay behind him, due to his slow gait. I was straining so hard to see what was in his tightly clutched, mesh bag, that I walked through a very busy intersection without even bothering to check if the light was green for me or not. I just followed the bag. Alas and alack, I could not tell what mysteries were within and at my place of work, I was forced to watch him continue on, loping slowly toward his destination of intrigue. Could he work? Does he attend some sort of school for oversized, Victorian illustrations come to life on the bodies of men? Why does he eat his sandwiches so meticulously? Did his mother teach him that? Does she lash him with a switch if he gobbles too quick?
I fear I shall never find the answers to these and more questions.
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3 comments:
Possibly one of Henry James's remittance men.
Bien sur! Why didn't I think of that? Explains everything.
I had just finished reading Mavis Gallant referencing that this week from the "Montreal Stories" collection. She met hers on the train de banlieue too, you will recall. Perhaps he is the son of a son of a son of one...
We won't be exchanging ideas about politics or writing though, the best we could exchange would be sandwiches. His mommy-made ones for my hastily crafted ones. Ew. Descendant of remittance man sandwiches.
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