Alfred, a Train Stop, OCD, and XYZ

If I don't fix my bedroom just right, it means my grandmother's porcelain plates will shatter into a million pieces! 

‘Was Alfred's favorite childhood superstition. Infact, He did not count the freckles on his face as a little boy, he did it with dust particles instead. 

Alfred has a particular way of going about the transit system every morning, a very perfectionist– very meticulous way. He doesn't prefer the word OCD because the letters are not in alphabetical order. If he could pick the numbers out of an analog clock he would line them up like a child on the spectrum stacking blocks, then rearrange them every hour on the dot. Nowadays, Alfred could count more wrinkles on his face than any spec of dirt, dust, or analytical building block.

All he must do is get to the train on time, in his very-own-very perfectionist way… 

At 7 o'clock he arrives at the transit entrance and taps the automated sensor with a cane, but if his glasses slip off his face he has to start again a couple of times. Bystanders began to set down their briefcases to give him some space, but wished they could ball up their 5 dollar ticket and throw it at his wrinkly forehead. 

He asks Ms. London how her morning is and if she's not there he will wait right by the ticket stand, checking his leather polished wrist watch. Ms. London chalks up some breath from heaving on a burnt cigarette and says it's okay. If she didn't brand a hole through her clothing with charred smoke, it would rather be a hole straight through his face from her glaring gray eyes. 

The antics continue as he must count his steps, one-after-another–ridgid now, on the escalator, like a roman statue. Children clutching their parents' trench coats watch– wide eyed, as if he is playing museum. If the escalator stops he wouldn't notice– it would just feel like a windless day. Some tap his shoulder and ask if he would walk up instead, but he insists on standing still– like a sims character stuck with the player away from the game. 

On the second floor of the station, the man with the sax fumbles his papers and plays one last tune on the brass, because at 7:20 Alfred pays him 5 dollars to stop. The man on sax reluctantly accepts the tip and takes the time to polish his instruments, then meticulous and particular Alfred proudly marches to the corner cafe. One..two...seventeen steps. 

“One decaf iced flat white with a red velvet cream top.” 

A drink that only exists in Alfred’s 80 something or the nearest even numbered aged brain, and the customer is always right, especially him. So the barista grinds 20 grams of decaf coffee in a short cup with skim milk and ice, the closest he will get. 

“Thank you, ma’am, no one makes it like you.” 

He marches away. At the train stop he sips his short iced coffee, gathering his opinion on the taste. A quick rat hurries past the southbound platform. A decent size for living off of coffee grounds, bread crumbs and cigarette ash. It's already half past 7! which means the first train starts jotting down the tracks. Yesterday's magazine papers catch the wind, flipping and twisting– just long enough to make out the latest celebrity scandal as it floats away. The decent sized rat disappears, so does his coffee. With a steady pace, and an empty cup he takes extra precaution to walk a few feet away from the train tracks. 

What a train wreck it would be! If he ever was to ever fall into the tracks, he'd have to weigh every moral consequence– like a professor in a lecture hall; playing out the most classic moral dilemma of philosophy. A literal trolley problem, as Alfred hasn't decided if he's a utilitarian yet. 

The ticket collector, in his jester red button up, reaches out for Alfred’s ticket, but an unusual event occurs. Alfred freezes, not like a statue on an escalator but like a little boy who didn't clean his bedroom 70 years ago. In the midst of his regular shenanigans, his 80 something brain had somehow forgotten to buy himself a ticket! With sweat dripping from his forehead he turns around to make his way back to the ticket stand downstairs. Only problem is…He must reverse his usual routine, in order to make things feel just right…

“Wait for me! I just gotta buy a ticket, it will be quick!” 

He runs backwards, as fast as a decent sized rat with cigarettes to eat. Seventeen… sixteen… fifteen.

He arrives at the coffee stand– knocking over a stack of 12 oz coffee cups. They scatter, rolling and tumbling on the tile. After gathering a few he realizes…for a split second - that the floral pattern engraved on the cup is similar to his grandmother's porcelain plates. The hoarded…kind of hated…fragile but never breaks kind of plates. With places to be and steps to trace, he repeats his particular order. Yet to his surprise the typical barista has already clocked out. 

“One-decaf-iced-flat-white-with-red-velvet-cream-top.” He says so hurryingly you would think it's one word. 

“I apologize…we don't have that.” The man references a chalky and hard to read menu tipping from the ceiling. 

“I’ll have the first thing.” Alfred settles with a frown that could deliver a eulogy. 

“Coming right up.” The cocky and spiffy new barista hands him some of what appears to be an earl gray london fog. 

“Perfect for the occasion, sir.” The barista laughs as Alfred receives his cocktail of spit-out-worthy gray liquid. 

“Disgusting!” He almost spits in the new man's face and murmurs to himself as he wallows over to the man on Sax.

“5 dollars to stop!”

“...and I apologize for earlier, when I asked you the same thing.” He scrummages through his wallet and drops 5 crumbled one dollar bills on the floor, the man on the saxophone furrows his brow. 

Alfred checks his wrist watch and scoffs at the sideways V, reading 750 o’clock.

Down the escalator again, except standing backwards this time. Just like a pull-back-car toy you had as a child– slowly moving back as if it's about to zip ahead at any second. He’s just about made it as Ms. London is in her very same position at the ticket stand. He snags a spot in line, forgetting to count his steps. Too busy hoping the chipper woman she’s chatting with will cut the act and move along.

“Blah… Blah… My parrots… Purple eyeshadow…” The heavyset woman rambles to Ms. London. She must have been infatuated by the zoo of a story she was hearing, because for the first time she had a spark in her gray eye and a genuine smile. For a second–frozen in time, a smile escapes Alfreds chapped lips. The London fog tasted quite nice now that he had a second to sip it without any celebrity gossip flying by and the dust particles of a chugging train landing in it. 

The design on the cup was almost identical to his grandmother's porcelain plates, the ones he almost had time to think about earlier. Instead of the usual irritating blare of a brass horn, the jazz had mellowed out quite softly and you could make out an exquisite song from a distance. 

“Maybe he took a second to tune it.” Alfred chuckled to himself as he hums an off tune rendition in his 80 something brain and taps his loafer on the tiles of the floor. In the heart of a slightly smug but wholesome moment, he almost forgot he hadn't checked the clock. 

8 o’clock…

 As the woman's banter dwindles she finally exits the line. Her size made it difficult for her to waddle away. The lingering sound of her bangles and earrings were present…and her heels were quite loud too. 

“How are you Ms. London?” Alfred says with a steamed milk stain on his lip. A piece of sweat dried on his forehead. As he peered down in an embarrassed manner, he brushed a rat's lunch sized crumb of coffee off his loafer. 

“I am doing well.” There's a sly smile left behind from her previous conversation. 

With little to no more crumbs to brush off himself, he says,

“I need to buy a ticket, I forgot.” With shaky hands and the anxiousness of his own compulsive behavior, he realizes that the little boy in him that didn't clean his room or brush his hair is displayed on his blank stare. 

“Well I just sold the last one for 8 o’clock, I can sell you one for 5 dollars that leaves at 8:30, how about that?” 

For a second he is tense, about to lay his head in his palm or wish her well without meaning it— but then he remembers he has a few sips of earl gray left, and the ensemble of music and chatter was still charming to his one good ear. For the first time he noticed, it was Ms. London, who had the purple eyeshadow he heard mummers about, and she looked quite elegant behind her raspy voice.

“I like your makeup.” He says smirking, just enough to soften the moment. She almost smiles.

“And, I think I'll do that 8:30 trip.” He settles, reaching into his pockets with shaky hands. He thinks… “It may be nice to switch it up this time…”, Maybe take the stairs and notice some more of the small things while he catches his breath.

 Well…if only he had 5 dollars left.