by Hanna Rose
Why?
I smelled him before I saw him. It was rank, the smell of dirt and filth, I thought. Unwashed. The only open seat was opposite him so I sat down and tried to wait for the ride to be over.
* * *
At first I thought he was just another homeless guy on the train. He was a big guy, spread out over the double seat to the left of the door. He was black, with dreadlocked hair and clothes that were falling apart. His pants were practically falling off his body.
What really upset me was what he did. Out of his pocket, he took something- weed, I guess- and he rolled it in some paper into a cigarette, then licked it shut. He took a lighter out of his pants’ pocket and went out the door of the car. From where I was sitting, I could see the back of his coat through the door window. He was standing between the cars as they moved, smoking.
“Take diethylene, one of those nasty carcinogens
your doctor might have told you about… First hand smoke
has between 5.3 and 43 nanograms of diethylene, whereas
secondhand smoke has 680 and 823 nanograms. Then we’ve got
quinolone- secondhand smoke has 18,000 nanograms; eleven
times more than the amount you’re sucking down firsthand.”
He did this three times total during the entire train ride. All I could think was, “Why?”
-Why do you do this to yourself? Don’t you have a family? Did something go so wrong this is your only escape? Do you like the feeling?
Various arguments and counter-arguments danced through my head. All of them, Why? Why, I screamed, without opening my mouth.
“Don’t you know that your body is a temple~”
the singer wailed in my head.
Again and again I went to ask him, and again and again I couldn’t force that ONE
FUCKING
WORD
past my lips, past the flush on my cheeks, and out into the air where I could get an answer.
If I did, what would he do? Would he ignore me? What would I say? Could I bring myself to repeat the question? It finally occurred to me that I might get hurt. I already knew that whatever scenarios I could imagine would never happen (Why?, I would ask. Is it worth it to destroy your body? And what if he said Yes?
Are you happy?).
* * *
Finally my stop came. The man was on the outside of the car again. I had thought then, then, as I was walking away, I would say it to him. I hesitated. I meant to. I stood on the brink ad I walked away. Up the stairs. Out the turnstile.
As I was leaving I saw an ad-
“Evil triumphs when good men do nothing.”
Or women.
Why?
Why?
WHY?
Why can’t I speak? How can other so easily approach and start a conversation when I can’t manage a single word? Why was he there? Why was he smoking? What had driven him? Could I have helped him?
I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. Outside the station, it was raining.
I could have done something, but I’d done NOTHING.
Why?
Why are you doing that?
Why?
But I couldn’t say it.
