The Other Side of the Tracks

This is the terminal where ghosts are born. He sees his proposal
to her on the platform over and over because he is forced to jump in front of
the train eternally. Imprisoned by his suicide. Trapped on the 3rd street
platform. He watches the memory play like syndicated reruns. Eventually, in one
moment, he recognizes the man on his knees as himself and the next, the jump
that sets him free.

#

And then the suspected ufo that haunted the city airspace. Rumors,
“My cousin saw it last weekend, said it was a city block long and faster
than hell.” He and his wife have bedtime conversations about the ufo
sporadically along with the magazine awards coming in for their examination of
American politics. Along with the increasing number of threats coming
anonymously for denigrating the country. Along with more idle chatter about the
ufo. The skyquake events growing stronger though no evidence of a cause; were
first reported as “microbursts” in the early days of Racquelle and Cole’s
relationship.

Cole sees the ufo in the sky or so he dreams with his wasted head
rocking against the train window riding out of the city one morning. He
imagines it as if real but knows it can’t be. Always considering the idea of a
ufo as something like a four-leaf clover. Maybe they exist but he’ll never
know. At the end of the book he witnesses, possibly from tv, the footage of the
skyquake. Isn’t that how it is now? He thinks. Tool’s Vicarious lyrics running
riot in his head.

#

I
stand alone on the subway platform four days after Racquel’s burial, unshaven,
and cigarette burns in the cuffs of the crumpled silver button-down shirt I put
on the morning of her funeral. I toss my phone down into the tracks and check
to see if the lights are making the corner down the tunnel. My destination isn’t
on the color-coded map stretched along the wall on the other side of the
tracks.

*

Last
week we were about five hundred miles apart. Even though we’d been married
eleven years I still struggled with the distance. She was so funny. I needed
her to make me laugh constantly. Our vows were like a prescription with
unlimited refills, she’d make me laugh and I’d stop having anxiety attacks. I
couldn’t wait for her to return from her conference. Now that she’s gone she
might as well be on Jupiter. The ocean between us is much too wide to swim
across in my body. So, shucking it off is the only way to close the gap and
reunite with her, my Racquel.

She
was in Philadelphia for a convention. I think it was all comedy magazines and
journals and she was a keynote speaker and panelist for a few different topics
that week. I called her every night before I went to work at the warehouse.
She’d be ending her day or getting ready to join some folks at the bar and I’d
be setting out in the snow and cold off the shores of Lake Eerie to work sixteen-hour
days. Sometimes at work that week, I’d tweet at her knowing she wouldn’t
respond until morning but it made me feel like we were talking. She told me I
spent too much time on twitter and maybe she was right because when she died not
once did one of my 2500+ followers tweet a condolence or so much as a sad
emoji. Granted, I didn’t tweet anything about her death until that moment on
the subway platform but I thought maybe one of my followers would chance upon
the news and extend a little