The Quartet

Your day has been going poorly from the time you woke up. Or rather, didn’t wake up. You managed to somehow turn off your alarm in the night, and what finally awakened you, almost half an hour late, was your mom pounding on the door that divides your “apartment” (really just an end of a hallway with a bedroom and a bathroom - all other amenities are shared) from the rest of your parents’ suburban home. You chalk up the almost too-late wake-up call to being one of the benefits of having been forced to move home after a sticky divorce in your mid-twenties. 

While convincing your mom that you’re alive, and have just made a mistake, but yes, are going in to work, you check your phone and your watch. It is indeed late, and there doesn’t seem to be a reason your alarm didn’t go off. You make a note to check it sometime later and make sure you don’t repeat this again tomorrow. You scramble out of bed, now focused on the essentials that you’ll need for work - a shower is out, but there are, thankfully, clean clothes in the closet (thanks, mom), lunch will can be bought (something on special in the cafeteria or a coffee and snacks from the staff room supplemented with a bagel or something should be able to keep the tab under ten dollars), all while trying to calculate if you’ve got enough time to catch your train.

“Sweetie, I know you’re an adult, and I’m supposed to let you be…” Your mom is calling through your door, like you’re back in grade school.

“What is it, mom?” You answer, pulling on a pair of pants you hope are black.

“If we go right now, I’ll drive you to the station on my way in.”

“Deal,” you confirm, now tucking in your shirt and bucking your belt.

“If I drop you in front, it’s closer, and I’m sure you’ll make the train.”

“I said ‘yes’, mom,” you tell her, opening the door, and shooing her in the right direction while running your fingers through your hair. You’d love to splash some water on your face and brush your teeth, but the pack of gum that you think has a couple pieces left in your jacket pocket should do.

You both walk down the stairs, where you pick up your jacket, bag, and paper bag lunch (thanks again, mom) while sliding your feet into your shoes. Your mom has slipped out into the garage and started the car, so you follow, pulling the door closed (it will lock automatically) with your foot, and get into the car.

You remember to thank your mom, although awkwardly, for all the help she’s offered on the ride to the station: the wake-up, the packed lunch, the ride. Everything since the divorce, really. And then you promise that you’ll be back on your feet soon. You’re saving up, and you should be out of their hair in six months, a year, tops. Work is...well, not going well, but you still have a job. And you’re saving everything you can. Everything that’s not going to essentials like the shampoo that you don’t use as often as you should, or contributing to “the household” like the groceries you pick up when you can, or the small things you need to have, just for your mental health, like your vape cartridges. In any case, the zeros are adding up faster than if you weren’t putting any effort into it. Eventually you’ll be able to afford rent on your own, and you’ll be a real adult again.

Seven minutes later, your mom is pulling up in the drop-off lane of the train station. 

“There it is, see?” your mom says, gesturing to the train pulling into the station.

“I see it,” you confirm.

“I told you we’d make it, sweetie, see?”

“I didn’t doubt you, mom. And thanks.” You’re unbuckling your seat belt and gathering your things, ready to hop out as soon as the car stops.

“No problem, sweetie. See you tonight, ok?”

“Yeah. Not too late. Thanks!”

You open the car door, get out, and stumble-jog away, towards the train platform. You fumble in your pocket, twisted out of position because you put on your jacket sitting in the car, and pull out your train pass. Without stopping, you wave it in front of the fare console, not hearing the approval beep until you’re on the second step on the short flight of stairs up to the platform. You wouldn’t have time to correct your mistake, even if the beep had been chastising, because the train is pulling in. You fly up the remaining steps, across the platform, and into the nearest door. This also means practically into the patrons standing just inside the door. You mutter an apology (even though you’re the one owed one, really) as the doors chime and close behind you.

You move past the people blocking the door and up to the upper level of the car, knowing that if there are empty seats, that’s where they’ll be. Surprised with your luck, you spot one. It’s not ideal, because it’s across from a tall man in a blue suit whose legs will crowd your area, and it’s the window seat beside a heavy-set younger man in jeans and a hockey sweater. You make your way over, holding onto headrests to keep your balance, and motion to the empty seat with a smile. The Hockey Fan inches his knees a towards the aisle and The Mid-Level-Manager shifts slightly and offers an apologetic smile. The last member of their quartet, a mid-thirties woman with a kind, but tired face offers you a sympathetic glance, and then resumes heavy study of her family magazine. You maneuver over and around your seat-mates, sit down heavily, and pull your work bag and paper bag lunch onto your lap.

Having finally gotten your morning mostly on track again, you close your eyes and take a deep breath. Today has started poorly, but now that you’re on the train, it should be salvageable. In the rush, you hadn’t considered the consequences of missing your train, and are relieved to not be in a position to be late again. When the train is delayed or cancelled, your boss can only complain so much, but you’ve also been late more than once when the trains have been running properly. Much like your marriage a year ago, your career (ok, it’s really just a job, but it’s all your liberal-arts education qualifies you for) is now on the rocks, too. It strikes you as ironic that fixing one aspect of your life has caused everything else to crumble. 

Your eyes are still closed, and you decide to think about your problems another time, and to just focus on getting to work, getting through the day, and fixing your alarm for tomorrow. You’d normally like to read or listen to a podcast but you have neither a book nor headphones. Your commute entertainment will have to be people-watching. At first, in a guise of politeness to match that the rest of your quartet showed you on your way in, you focus your attention to the distance. You try looking out the window for a few minutes, but the way that you’re positioned makes your neck ache. You’d try to re-adjust, but don’t want to bother your quartet, and you’re not sure how you could wrangle yourself more room, between The Mid-Level-Manager’s over-long legs and The Hockey Fan’s over-sized everything. Besides, watching houses flash past the window, all the same save for a paint job or some landscaping or maybe a pool or kids’ toys in the yard, makes you train-sick if you try for more than a few minutes at a time.

The conductor is announcing the train’s first stop, and you turn your attention to the passengers readying themselves to get off and start their days. In the direction you can see, there’s a short man who’s stood up to put on his trench coat in the aisle and a young woman dressed like a student in jeans, running shoes, a hoodie branded with the local college’s insignia, headphones in her ears and backpack swinging onto her back as she stands. Both of these lucky (or perhaps calculating) people were sitting in aisle seats, within a couple of quartets of the door. You’re immediately jealous, but then you realise you’re going to the end of the line, so even if The Mid-Level-Manager and The Hockey Fan ride the whole way with you, you won't have to climb over them to get off. You consider how you’d get yourself to one of the seats, but know it’s only a fantasy as the seats will be closer to the people coming from the stairs than her, and therefore next-to-impossible to actually snag one.

The train is moving again. The two newly emptied seats have been filled and there are even a couple of people standing in the aisle now, holding onto grab-bars to keep their balance, their bags tucked between their feet. Suddenly being squeezed into your window seat doesn’t seem so bad, after all. 

You mentally try to remember how many stops there are left. Eight seems to make sense, although you can’t remember if you travel eight stops total, or if there are eight after you get on. You’re about to decide it’s not really important when The Hockey Fan elbows you.

You look over, assuming that he wants something, but are met with a mumbled “oh, sorry,” and realize that he wasn’t getting your attention, he was just trying to plug headphones into the side of a laptop that he’s produced from somewhere. You’re impressed, in spite of your irritation at being elbowed, that he’s not just going to blast his music all through the train car. Then you remember that headphones don’t necessarily protect those closest to the listener from the loudest and most annoying music. You steel yourself to elbow him back, and request that he either turn down his tunes or put on some Mozart, and decide that some casual nosey-ness isn’t out of place. If you can get a sneak peek at his playlist before the noise commences, you’ll just be ready to save your fellow passengers from the aural assault that much faster.

The computer is still logging-in; a small white dog sitting in front of a tree demands that The Hockey Fan “please wait.” Then he’s in, and the background is another picture of the dog, this time snoozing on a sofa. You assume that it’s his dog, based on how often he’s on the screen, and try to decide if it’s out of character - it’s not one of those tea-cup breeds, but neither is it a macho guard-dog type. Here he goes, he’s opening some files. There’s WiFi on the train, but everyone knows it’s as slow as molasses, and you’d be lucky to get a simple web page to load between each station. The Hockey Fan is clicking through, and clicking through. He knows what he’s looking for, and where it is, despite the mess that his directories seem to be. And he’s found it; he finally double-clicks a file name (just a jumbled mess of random numbers and letters) and a video player opens.

You assume it’s pirated hockey games or a movie or something, and that the opening credits don’t need your attention, so you scan the train again. When you look back to the screen, you’re shocked. The Hockey Fan isn’t watching a game, or movie or even the news. 

He’s watching porn. Two greasy-looking people were writhing around on the small computer’s screen, presumably groaning fake moans into The Hockey Fan’s ears. You’re captivated by both the idea that someone would so openly be watching porn and the bodies that you’re seeing. There’s something familiar about the scene, and it takes you a moment to recognize yourself. 

You sit back quickly into your seat, suddenly feeling a wave of vertigo, your head swimming, your pulse racing and your heart drumming. You process the thought that you should be upset at The Hockey Fan’s viewing of your footage, or maybe that he was watching porn on the train in general. But it’s seeing yourself on the screen that’s caught your attention. 

It was a different you, really. A fearless, naive and desperate you who wanted to pay rent, pay tuition and have time to sleep at night while still not being crushed by debt. You just needed fast cash, and were never really bothered by it, in a moral sense. But then you met The Ex, and went “straight” to please. You hadn’t really thought about the video for the past few years.

But this was the right time for it to resurface. This was the decision you needed to be faced with: go forward the way you’re going, or stop. Do something different, something big.

The train is pulling into the station again, and you bolt up, out of your seat and over and around The Soccer Mom, The Mid-Level-Manager and The Hockey Fan into the aisle, down the train, and out onto the platform. You don’t feel bad if the rest of the quartet thinks you’re rude pushing out like that. You’ve made a decision and you have no time to waste: your new life is waiting for you.