"The tall one appears to be the oldest with signs of ware around his eyes, a yellowing tint to his sparsely populated teeth and deep cratered dimples as he smiles, a happy man that is most likely the leader."Four Men
a short story by
Jakob Michael (my new writer name)
Eyes are peeled in a skeptical curiosity as four men enter the subway car. It’s late on a weeknight with the car nearly empty. Just moments ago you could here the subtle snore of an elderly Chinese man in the corner and the taping of a teenagers fingers as he listens to his generously pulsated house music herd from his head phones. Now with the interruption of these subtleties the cars main focus is these four men. There casual entrance gives spectators an odd feeling of translucence. A snore or any unsolicited sound from a leaking set of head phones is disregarded. The tall one appears to be the oldest with signs of ware around his eyes, a yellowing tint to his sparsely populated teeth and deep cratered dimples as he smiles, a happy man that is most likely the leader. After several minutes of casual conversation and perfectly timed jokes the older one speaks in a more serious but sympathetic voice, “Who has bread to go with the soup tonight? I have the soup but who has the substance.” He waits for a reply but the silence is only followed by the low hum of the subway tracks just beneath. Disappointment hits the air hard. After a quick pause, two seats down another voice speaks. Eyes now take on this other interest. His words are slurred and his head sways in a most original almost detached way. Not a beautiful man. Although noticeably middle-aged, his face is ridden with acne and patches of unshaven hair. He cracks a sarcastic joke, probably about the night’s lack of bread. But with his unclear speech his Spanish is awfully hard for me to understand. Almost certainly however, the response of laughter from his party is herd three subway cars behind. Now set in place of the earlier disappointment is the previously established feeling of friendship. They just needed that reminder. They are a family or maybe a band of brothers. No real definition could be given but this is what it is, some kind of undefined relationship that could never be replaced or broken. Not in this group does there exist a father and son, uncle and nephew, brother or cousin. In this group they have one major thing in common. Each of there original lives are in the past. The future is vague but most obvious is the ever burdening fact that they are all homeless. They are as the world sees them, bums.
It’s mid January with much of the cities natural life having died with the warmth of the sun. Just three weeks ago did Madrid see the rare and almost surreal appearance of three inches of snow. This uninvited presence is now, for most, entirely forgotten but for this group of men the memory only makes fear ride even closer to there brink of hope.
Having moved on from the disappointment of the soup being the night’s only source nutrition the leader speaks again. He mentions the dreaded question that is given its life each night and with each progressive night the answer is often times left unanswered. At times it’s almost figurative because of its silent response. However, even when unanswered the answer lies on each individual face. It’s a synonym to the horror of the question and an equal to an actual response. With a deep stare through the window that only looks through to the darkness of the tunnel he asks it. “We have a few options boys. La Latina can offer us some privacy and maybe even the company of a fire. Pirimedes has the river with an array of bridges to make our choice from.” He gives a polite pause before he announces what everyone knows he will say but not what they want to hear. A moment later he says it. “Where shall we get our beauty sleep?” His attempt at humor is slaughtered with the tone of his voice. His voice cracks midway between the word beauty because of his lack of air. This air needed so badly to salvage the groups positivity sits in the vacant hole in his stomach. He has not eaten in three days.
Just then a familiar voice comes in to play. Some middle aged woman that each Madrileño has come to know. Her recorded voice with a touch of sensuality is herd over the intercom, “next stop, La Latina”. It’s a nice break from the tense air given of by the four men’s deep thought. Again I catch a momentary snore from the neighboring Chinese man. He is still sleeping. Not lasting long, silence is again interrupted but this time in a nonverbal approach. The words just uttered “next stop, La Latina” bring a new expression to each of the four men’s faces. They give each other a quick glance and stand in the same synchronized moment. They leave, silently with little expression on there faces.
Tap-tap-tap, the teenager is hypnotized by the rhythmic beat of his music. The Chinese man has changed his sleeping position but is still in a state of hibernation. Then with the newly vacant seats in front of me I see myself in the window. I try and reminisce the resent account of the four men. “Next stop, Urgel”. I leave the Chinese man in the corner and the teenager to his music. I leave being the sol witness of four men.
Note:
That’s my first short story! Criticism is appreciated, thanks
-jAKE
