I’m sitting on the train after a marathon day at work. My unfocused eyes stare out the window, and I stretch the muscle kink out of my neck. My earbuds crackle and the stress relief podcast I had been listening to dies. Shit.
The train squeals to a stop. People funnel towards the door and spill out onto the platform. A new group of bodies steps in the door and fans out. A man getting on with a pizza delivery bag catches my eye. He looks from side to side and quickly slides into a seat settling the bag flat on his lap.
The train begins to move forward again, the car rocking me gently side to side and I turn back toward the window. My eyes flick back to the pizza man. Is he using the train to deliver the pizza? Is he done for the night and is taking the bag home? I’m curious. He looks my direction and I force my gaze straight ahead. The man sitting in front of me has bird poop on his hood. I scrunch my nose and turn back to the window.
Is the bag empty? Does he get free pizza to take home at the end of his day? What else might be in the pizza bag? Drugs? A weapon? A 345 page personal manifesto?
When I look again, he is studying the middle aged woman next to him. She either doesn’t notice or has chosen to ignore him. His right hand is under the bag. No, wait. It’s in the bag! He has slipped his right hand inside the end flap but is doing so furtively. His forearm moves ever so slightly back and forth.
What is he doing? Working loose a slice of pepperoni and ham? Pulling a gun from a holster? Petting a live animal? Any one of numerous other things I don’t want to think about? I realize I’m openly staring and when I look up to his face, our eyes meet. I squint my eyes, looking just past him as though intent on reading the poster behind his seatmate. It seems like a great time to read up on the rules for being a considerate passenger.
The train lurches to a stop again. I pick up my belongings and move toward the door. Mr. Pizza stays seated. I am both relieved and sad that he is not getting off at my stop. I just want to know what is in that pizza bag! As I step out onto the platform, I turn around to steal one last glance, but the doors close and I can’t see him now. However, the man with the poopy hood has his nose pressed against the window. He pushes his tongue between his lips and it smooshes against the glass. He winks at me as the train moves on to the next stop.
Once Upon a Willow 