Power Hour #9 (Incomplete)

Henry likes to look at the ads on the train. Likes to imagine what the people in the ads are thinking. He sees a picture of two black teenagers wearing ironed button-ups and firmly belted khakis and a too wide smile. In a speech bubble above, garish words exclaim, “If I can succeed, you can too!” At the bottom, the city university name shines prominently. It’s supposed to be big and white, but because of the lights, the words emit a sickly yellow hue. The school logo looks like a haggard combination of different Ivy school logos, as if the artist couldn’t decide which parts he liked best, so he put them all in.

The two teens are crammed between the speech bubble and letters at the bottom. Henry can imagine them squeezing inward, popping the two smiling faces like cherries. He dislikes their smiles. No one should have that white teeth. It looks like they just stacked a pack of mints side by side in their mouth. He wonders what they must have been thinking when the photo was taken. Was it impromptu? Did the photographer peer around campus for attractive black kids who dress like white people? Did he think to himself, “those people probably aren’t going rob me.” There’s two random strangers, dressed in their Sunday’s finest, probably off to church, or a date, or to see their grandparents and some random asshole starts ordering them to gape their mouths and display their teeth. They probably told him to fuck off. Or, as the ad would want you to believe, these idealized youths would say, “could you kindly please leave us be.” Photographer probably slipped them a twenty, and they acted out their classy part gladly. Guy on the left could have been standing up some poor girl. He could pocket this hypothetical money and waste it on some more designer clothes. He could be a veritable prick. Henry just guesses.

Two guys across from him speak insults like greetings to each other. Don’t look like they know each other well. They’re arguing over something they saw on the train. Henry doesn’t really care, he’s too interested in these grinning idiots in the ad. The guy who’s doing most of the shouting is a brawny, black guy. He’s got thick, meaty fingers. He has on a Michael Jordan jersey. The printed number has chipped off in many places and the edges are starting to fray. He has baggy sweatpants with a tomato sauce stain on his right thigh. His shoes look like they could speak. The other guy is built, but in a lithe and taut way. He’s got a polo on that’s several sizes too large. A logo is stamped where his left nipple would be. His jeans slide around the chair, barely fastened to his buttocks. They’re probably between fifteen and twenty-five. Henry doesn’t know, can never tell when a guy has facial hair. They can’t be younger; their voices boom bass notes. And they can’t be too much older than Henry, because they’re talking on the train. Real adults don’t talk on the train. Henry says it’s inconsiderate; says that it’s better to leave someone alone. Who knows, they could be a serial killer who’ll chop you to pieces at the slightest provocation. Or they could have just broken up with their lover. Then it’s polite to listen to their sob story, and bear with their sobs. Most likely, a random stranger on the train doesn’t speak English. Then Henry would look like a racist boob speaking gibberish. Henry gets on and off the train. He’s never truly there; it’s never a destination, just an annoyance.

The big guy stands up and towers over the sitting skinny guy. His chin is jutted up. He’s pressing into skinny guy’s leg, forcing him to squeeze against a metal pole. Skinny guy’s got a smirk on his face. He’s being pushed, but body is relaxed. The big guy shouts some incoherent slang. Little guy keeps eye contact, doesn’t shirk or flinch.