August 1, 2009


There was a train and there was a bed. Those were the only two things right now in my mind of any significance and urgency. One would follow the other eventually in a repetitive cycle for as long as I lived here. But right now, at the door. Keys in my hand. It was one or the other. It was you or me. It was sleep or death. It really wasn't as big of a deal as I was making it out to be.

I had been mulling for too long now, what was to be done about the 486 hours I spent not speaking to you or thinking about you. The answer was clear with the act itself. Nothing. Was that all there was to it? I was starting to believe that was it.
Once you had existed everywhere all the time, so much that I became worried that you would exist in everybody I met or wanted to meet from then on out. Or even worse, I wouldn't ever find you again. And now everybody I try to find won't hear of it.

So I took the train. I took it to another train which took me far far west where all I wanted to do was walk around completely anonymous and be surrounded by strangers who wouldn't know me or want to. I read a book about post-its. I read another book about other people's love notes. I felt intrusive and sneaky. It was raining and I got very wet. It didn't really bother me.

I had been starting to feel a bit bad about my bed. We had an agreement. I rarely kept company with it anymore, choosing instead to remain awake, indulging a really pointless and unproductive insomnia that wasn't so much profound as it was stubborn and needy. This insomnia did not allow me to do anything I had been meaning to get done. It only wanted me there to hold its hand, like a child who didn't want to be alone. To surf the internet for funny illustrations. To read teenage vampire love novels.

I decided to be productive anyway. I went to the postal office to mail a package. A man named Jorge greeted me at the window with, "How's it going, mang, eh?"
"I'm fine, how are you?"
"Great, I'm great. What can I do for you?"
"I need this to get to France," I said, pushing my parcel towards him.
"France! France? Why you wanna send anything there? Who you know in France?" He croaked. Jorge was old. Older than Hunter S. Thompson, not older than Christopher Walken but equally as strange. He had me fill out an envelope.
"Hey psst," he whispered as I was leaned over, scribbling foreign international addresses. "You feel like you're being watched?"
"Huh? Maybe. I figure everyone in line hates me for taking this long..."
"You feel eyes on you?"
"No, not particularly."
"Someone is watching you."
"What? Who?"
He glanced down at the desk. A tiny penguin figurine stood, beak pointed upwards in penguin agony or triumph, I couldn't tell.

"You know who that is?" Jorge asked me.
"Penguin," I said, to no one.
"His name is Pengu."
"No. Pengu."
"Ja. Pengu."
"Yes. He say Hello." Jorge said, smiling. His teeth were perfect triangles.
"Hello, Pengu," I responded. It's only polite.
"You do me a favor, Sable," He asked me, reading my name off of the credit card I handed him. "Stay beautiful."
"I'll try my hardest," I replied, chuckling nervously.
"Don't try, just do it!"
"Okay. Thanks. Take it easy, man," I said, as I was leaving.

I took the train directly to bed after that. It lurched right at the foot of it, tossing me pillow-wards. I tumbled into my sheets and the train rose high up on its rear wheels, brakes screaming. A huff, a puff, and it departed with friendly bells telling me to watch the gap. But not without leaving an amoeba of engine oil on my floor in front of my dresser, evidence of its overexcited delivery. I laid there listening to it's absence and the air that filled it. I received a text message. I set an alarm. I did not brush my teeth. I wasn't getting up any time soon.
It was then that you called me. I answered the phone. "Ahoy?"
You said one word.