Left, right, left, right, one foot in front of the other.  Walking down the steep stairs, blinding lights from the station suddenly enveloped me in a crowd of people rushing to get home.  My train was leaving in five minutes and I was late. Again. Loping from bench to bench, drowsy and almost falling, I arrived, just as the driver was closing the door.  He made sure I got on, knowing I was dilatory. The same commuters were sitting inside, not surprised by my usual tardy appearance. The faces of both young and old, happy and sad, my everyday encounters.

Metal seats, cold under my thin, worn-out khaki pants, made me shiver.  Passengers’ eyes were drawn to their hands, holding bright screens, no one exchanging looks like they used to.  That did not stop me from making them feel uncomfortable. I would stare until the creepy feeling of someone studying them forced the person to look up from their device and get a chill down their back when recognized me.  

To get my mind off sleeping and other things I’d rather not think about, I distracted myself with stories.  My imagination made the dullest situations most amusing and pleasing. With someone’s impression I would made semi-detailed analysis of what their lives were like.  This was better than a conversation. Why be discontented with reality when fantasy always has a happy ending?

Today I started with a middle-aged woman, sitting across from me.  She is in possession of a hefty purse looking more like a backpack, which led me to think she had a lot to carry.  I imagined her to be a mother of two, living in a white picket fence, red door type home. Coming back from her dinner with other moms, they talked about Timmy’s soccer game and Lisa’s dance recital.  Thrilled by the fact that soon enough, she would be able to see the love of her life. Married at just 25, sweethearts since high school. Since it was not a school night, she was anticipating an intense Uno game with Disney songs echoing throughout the house. She was the ideal happy lady with her home, her kids, and her husband.

Then there was the young guy sitting three seats down from me.  Spic and span with his clean cut suit, leather briefcase, perfect posture and hair gelled back.  From the looks of him, he was a professional. Graduated high school summa-cum-laude, right into the Wharton School of Business, where he received his masters in finance.  Now probably around 28, coming back from his job on Wall Street. Getting ready for tomorrow, where his workout will be followed with a meeting and then an encounter with his lads at a bar.

A sudden groan came from an old man, asleep on his seat, his hand grasping a suitcase with his last bit of strength.  Tan wrinkly skin gave a hint of his former youth. A surfer, a passion that drew him to find the highest waves. From Hawaii, California, France, Belize, maybe even the coast of China.  He had been all around the world, discovering new friends and diverse culture. His love for the ocean was a catalyst for happiness, for it caused memories and travel to transpire.

The blaring of the bell signaled that we were at my stop.  I let everyone pass in front of me, not eager to leave like the rest of them.  The driver got off with me, for it was late and this was his final destination.  Waving goodbye, I walked down to my apartment.

Unlocking the door, I pushed as hard as I could.  It had a tendency to get stuck, and there was no one on the other side to help me open up.  My filthy boots imprinted a dirt stamp on a piece of paper I hadn’t seen. Picking it up, it read “Pay up! -landlord.”

It was getting harder for me to sleep.  I felt restless. My eyes would focus on a single speck on my ceiling in the dark.  But tonight was different. I fell asleep.