God's House

by Mike Dooly

     Man, oh man does it stink in here. Like an old, wet dog. An old, dead, wet dog. An entire kennel of old, dead, wet dogs. It’s thick and heavy, like chimney smoke, a brutal ambush of the senses nobody expected to have to confront as the crowded train pulled up to the platform. A train packed nearly to capacity, except for this one particular car.  Of course, that should’ve been everyone’s first clue, but all those empty seats looked so comfortable and promising, an oasis in this underground desert. So on they rushed, eyes focused on the prize of a brief and rare respite during the long and tedious ride home.  And then, at the exact moment they turned and noticed all those people huddled together at the other end of the car…what are they all doing down there?  Why aren’t any of them sitting?  And why do the all look so damn angry? Just at that moment, BAM!, they get hit, like a bucket of sewage right to the face. Heavy stank immediately invades sinuses and coats tongues. Reality abruptly shifts into slow motion as they turn toward the other end of the car and see the source of this sudden abuse. 

       And there it is. Soiled and sticky. Big, black, baggy pants and a big, black, puffy down coat.  A greasy black bandana pulled over an unusually large, hairless head, tied together under the chin, old-pioneer-woman style. An absolute lack of eyebrows that makes the giant, black, leathered forehead even more massive and monstrous. A dark splotch of a man, comfortably lounging across three seats, with almost half the car entirely to himself.

       On the floor, surrounding his…are those boots? Nope, those are feet. Thick-skinned, hardened, blackened bare feet. On the floor surrounding his bare feet, are two Hefty bags, stuffed and bulging with God only knows what.  And even though it looks like his eyes are squeezed tightly shut, he’s sure as hell busy rummaging through one of those Heftys, pulling out smaller plastic bags, the grocery store kind. He keeps taking them out, hundreds, thousands, millions of those goddamn noisy little bags, vigorously inspecting the contents of each and every one, and then putting it into the other Hefty. On and on and on this process goes, the rustling and crinkling of the bags growing louder and louder, eventually becoming the only sound anyone can hear as the train ever so slowly screeches and grinds to a halt. 

       Then, like some sort of twisted and damaged magician, out of nowhere our companion produces a tiny pan. Well, not a pan, exactly, more like a handle-less, miniature cast-iron skillet. It’s pretty nice, actually.  A six ounce pull-top can of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee Ravioli also materializes, just as mysteriously. It doesn’t end there though, oh hell no. To accompany the infamous Chef’s ravioli are two, count ‘em, two cans of Vienna Sausage. All three cans are popped and peeled open, the entrails plop-splashed into the neat little skillet-thing, empties disappear into a plastic fucking bag, of course. Now he reaches up into his bandana, and over his ear, where some people might temporarily keep a pen or pencil, he pulls out a…spork?  A spork, the perfect utensil for a man on the go.  The intense bouquet of meat by-product fastens itself to the wicked sourness already in the air as this begrimed gentleman commences to dine. And the train just sits.

       Okay, this has gone too far, this molestation of the faculties. The whole world is starting to swirl and blend together, all crinkling and rustling and reeking of death and piss and pop-top Vienna sausages with colossal foreheads of old, stretched leather hiding sporks and bare feet that look like beaten up worn out burned up leprosy. Somebody should do something about this. This train needs to start moving! Right now! Look at that lady over there, she’s all pale and her forehead is sweaty. Her eyes are rolling back. The book she’s holding with the “Oprah’s Book of the Month Club” stamp is about to slip out of her hand onto the floor. And maybe it’s just a coincidence that the book is  “Fall On Your Knees” by Anne-Marie MacDonald, or maybe it’s proof of what a sick sense of humor God can sometimes have, because that’s exactly what this poor woman does…Thump!

       She’s immediately helped back to her feet and assisted onto the nearest seat. A small bottle of water is offered, which she refuses at first, out of embarrassment, then sheepishly accepts. Her book is picked up and returned.  "Thank you," she quietly says as she slides it into her bag. The castaway at the end of the car squinches his eyes and wolfs down his meal. The train sits there. Heads shake, frustrated mumblings become disgruntled grumblings.  The woman takes a sip of water.

       The minutes drag, no announcements made, no movement. A couple more people have taken seats, exhaustion and monotony winning out over repulsion. A young guy with dried white paint spattered all over his jeans and boots loudly informs the castaway that “he’s goddamn disgusting, yo” and that “he needs to take a goddamn shower.”  Then he walks a few paces down the car, takes a seat and adds that “you ain’t supposed to eat on the train either.”  Still the train just sits there.

       Ol’ Squinty has come to the end of his feast by now, though, and scrapes the last bits of a filmy grease from his pan and happily licks his trusty spork clean. Then just as it appeared out of nowhere, the pan vanishes, it’s just gone. No one was able to see where it went because they were all watching the spork go back under his kerchief and over his ear.

       More people decide to sit, each one having to sit just a little closer, move just that much further into forsaken territory.  They tell themselves it’s okay now because of fatigue, and at least he’s not eating anymore, and yeah, there’s some truth to that. The real answer though, as much as they’d all hate to admit it, is that they’re getting used to it, to him. They’re adapting, as they do many times every single day.  The situation just has to be accepted, nothing can be done about it right now, so do what you gotta do, but this train ain’t going anywhere anytime soon, so deal.  It’s a trait that must be honed and exercised in order to survive in this city, this unconsciously impressive adaptability. It’s a shared quality that cuts right into the character of what it means to be a New Yorker. More minutes drag by and now only two or three people elect to keep standing. Even the woman that fell has gone back to reading her book. 

       Suddenly, lo and behold, our companion decides to speak up. He hefts his distorted feet off the seats, plunks them on the floor, and with eyes squeezed tight and a voice that only Tom Waits could love, tells us that if we have given ourselves to Christ, then we are members of the family of God, and everything in God’s house is for us. Then someone, most likely the paint-spattered guy, tells him to shut the fuck up. And the train just sits there.  

When not living one-third of his life on the N, R, W, or V, Mike Dooly is either lounging at home in Long Island City, Queens with his awesome girlfriend or auditioning in Manhattan for commercials and soul-less TV sit-coms.