High Tension
The boy had a close-cropped head like a bullet and tensely muscled jowls that came down to a narrow chin. There was something tight and peculiar about the set of his cheeks, as though he were missing molars. His arms were covered with crudely drawn tattoos–a heart, a three-pointed crown, and other signs I couldn’t read because they were covered by his short-sleeved, blue-and-white-checked shirt. The girl was pretty. Her black hair was permed into long, kinky curls and tied up in a loose bun. The short curls on her forehead were wet with perspiration. She wore a pink tank top, so her tattoos were easier to read. One said “Alonzo” in flowing script. Beneath his name were the dates 1975-1997. A dead boyfriend, or brother maybe. She looked about 20. I wondered if she was the boy’s big sister. Her full, red mouth was set in a dreamy smile.
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Everyone on the train turned to look. The power surge sparked by this trio had spread to everyone on the train. Our hair stood up on our arms, and we wondered, Will it ground? Will it ground? Or will it explode? Please, God, let it ground.
The old woman next to the old man turned around in her seat and glared at the short man. She wore a green visor and a Cubs shirt, too. “Would you be quiet?” she said.
He opened his vacation book again and began flipping pages, unseeing. Juan began to chat with the girl, and he muttered angrily. When I got off at Addison, I pushed past the Cubs fans to knock at the driver’s window.
Angrily, I picked up my children from their father’s house; angrily, I drove them home and gave them dinner. The older girl spilled her milk. “Was that necessary?” I growled, going for a washrag. At the sight of her tears, my anger sank down into my feet and poured into the ground. I thought of the anger of the old man, and the old woman, and the short man, and wondered what had happened to theirs.
