C.o.C.: Hardbody

Image by moriza via Flickr

Some of the people I noticed on my commute weren’t necessarily riding the train with me. Some of them shared my walk from the train station to the office where I worked.

Backstory: The company I worked for had a campus sprawled over various areas of Big City.  This is called a “Metropolitan Area” scheme, if you’re wondering.  Two buildings on the same street faced each other, one on the west side and the other on the east side of a north-south thoroughfare.  So, a lot of people who worked for said company hoofed down the long street from destinations unknown.  Hardbody was one such individual.

When I first started with the company, I didn’t know the shuttle bus schedule and frankly, I didn’t want to work that hard first thing in the morning, so for several months I just walked up the street.  It was a long walk for me and hey, I’m fat – I could use the exercise.  Why not?

For a time, I tried to keep up with the other walking commuters as they strutted down the street with their type-A commuter’s gaits.

That didn’t last.  Did I mention I’m fat?  Well, I’m out of shape and a smoker too, so no, that didn’t last.  I soon discovered I couldn’t keep up, even when I tried.  I walked as fast as I dared without inducing a cardiac episode, and reminded myself smoking after this ordeal, no matter how appealing, was a disastrously stupid idea.    One day, through the pain-induced haze and tears, I heard a rapid footfall behind me.  It was the familiar clip-clop of high heels.  I’d gotten used to being passed by women in high-heeled shoes (and everyone else, fat, thin, young, old, disabled – didn’t matter, everyone passed me), so when I glanced up, I didn’t expect much.

Instead, I caught the posterior view of one of the most amazing female specimens I’ve ever seen.

Her clumpy heels didn’t slow her down.  She strode along, her sprayed hair bouncing with each step, but nothing else did.  Her body had no notable fat – at least not through her clothing.  She was taller than I am in her heels, and her clothes fit every curve and angle of her body.  Her hips swung as she walked, and even her glutes didn’t vibrate.  It was like she was carved from stone.

I stared, amazed, as she put distance between us, and wondered if I could count her ribs if she wore a bikini.  Then I noticed her thighs, from which you could bounce a quarter, didn’t make contact at the top where they attached to her pelvis.  And in a moment I realized there really is such a thing as too thin.  She’s an amazing physique to be sure, but I couldn’t help wondering how many vertebrae show through the skin on her back and whether her iliac bones protruded when she wore more revealing articles.

Still, her athleticism astounded me, and I pondered the hours in the gym, her commitment to diet and discipline, as she smoldered out of my sight.

Over the course of many months I gained endurance enough to be less slow (never fast) when I walked, and I always used The Hardbody as my benchmark.

I didn’t really mind the view either.

All original content © 2009 DarcKnyt
ALL rights reserved.

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C.o.C.: The Friendly Woman

I first noticed The Friendly Woman after a couple of days of my commute.  I tend to observe people in general, and I don’t often forget a face.  I’d seen her my first trip, and here she was again on my second trip.  She had a masculine hair cut – no style to it, parted on the left, cropped short around her circular head.  She sat in the northwest corner of the train station, dolloped onto one of the uncomfortable benches of wrought iron and cedar, varnished to a high gloss, her face buried in a romance novel.  Her rotund body bulged so she seemed like a beanbag collapsing into the slats.

When I walked in, I gave the station my usual precursory scan.  I always check a place out when I walk in – see who’s there, get a feel for the populace.  Not many people huddled inside the depot; Curly Sue was in her corner, at the other end of the row of benches from The Friendly Woman, riffing through her iPod songs.  A bald man with his foot in a walking cast shuffled advertisements out of his newspaper, his Parkinsons tremors shaking his pate and hands.  A man with his arm in a body-embracing sling leaned over a lacquered tree limb cane with a rubber foot on the end, a low-crowned cowboy hat snugged down over his ears.  A young man tumbled through the doors with a small Igloo lunch cooler, his hard hat’s hollow plastic clattering against the floor, the benches, the cooler.

I sat down between Curly Sue and The Friendly Woman, which is when I noticed the latter’s gaze on me.

When she saw my eyes shift to her, she didn’t break her stare.  Instead, she smiled.  “Hi,” she said, and her voice was soft, warm, welcoming.  I couldn’t help responding with my own weary smile and returned her greeting.  She went back to her bodice-ripper, and I shut my eyes to pray.

The next morning, she caught my attention as I entered the building and greeted me with “Good morning,” in her usual, chipper-but-unobtrusive sing-song.  And so it went, every day.  Sometimes she’d make small talk about the weather, or the train, and asked where I stopped at the other end.  Other times, when the weather warmed into summer, she’d comment on how pretty the train station grounds are relative to others she’s seen along the line.  I agreed with her; the flowers and plants were pretty if not beautiful.  The train station building was too hot, without air conditioning, to wait inside, so many passengers – more than 20 at times – would crowd the edge of the platform and await the train, swatting mosquitoes and fanning gnats.  TFW and I would chat quietly for a few minutes before she returned to her novel and I paced.  I always pace.

When the tragic accident I called Not a Typical Morning happened, she didn’t complain.  She never commented with the others in the station in a calloused, uncaring way.  She only made a couple of phone calls to arrange another method of transport.  Oh, and we didn’t exchange greetings that day.

When autumn’s bite returned the chill to the air, I didn’t retreat back into the train depot.  I would wait on the platform and let the cool, brisk winds brace me, wake me.  But I’d see her by her northwest window, bundled in a parka with her hood drawn over her head, book in her hand, dolloped onto her bench.  In my head, I always said, “Good morning.”

I still do sometimes.

All original content © 2009 DarcKnyt
ALL rights reserved.

IT’S A MIRACLE!

No, I’m not exaggerating the title of this post, either.

I told you all the other day about how I’d lost my train pass and security ID badge on the train. Tried everything I knew I could to get it back. Lost and Found — nothing. Asked the train crew — nothing. Prayed like the dickens. Nothing.

The Cast of Characters

For the last few months, I’ve been riding a train to and from work.  During that time, I’ve discovered there are regular riders I see most everyday.  The regulars I see depends on where I sit on the train.  Of late, I’ve taken to sitting in the second to last car from the engine on the way into The Big City, and on the first car after the engine on the way home.  Before I just sat wherever I could find a seat, and that gave me a sampling of different people.

Two Down, 50 to Go

Well, another week’s gone by. I’m whupped … again. But, at least it’s getting easier. No it’s not, who’m I kidding?

But, it’s not all bad. I’ve got my routine down, and I’m in my habits. I guess. I really, really hate buying train tickets. It messes up my routine. But then, I’d really, really hate getting gas too. That’d suck, especially since I’d be doing it probably twice a week. And don’t get me started on the tolls.

Instead, let me tell you about inconsiderate strangers and how I’m about to put into writing something I’d never thought I’d say:

I miss driving to work.

Here’s what happened today:

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