Post by CM Poor on Sept 9, 2011 8:35:18 GMT -5
Some Fatherly Advice
"Attention, passengers. We are currently experiencing delays. This train, bound for Cleveland, Ohio, will depart shortly. We appreciate your patience, and wish you a safe and enjoyable trip."
Her voice echoes throughout the half-full rail car for the third time in 45 minutes. Naturally, many of the passengers are, by now, beginning to show signs of irritability. All around, necks strain to peer out the pane glass windows, looking for some sign of activity, a reason for the delay, or even an Amtrak official at which they can hurl they displeasure. Others make a show of visibly checking their watches, tapping the faceplate, and holding their wrists to their ears (as if watches still functioned in the same manner they did in the 1930's). The few that have given up on making a showy spectacle of themselves have resigned to making phone calls, tying up the loose ends for the appointments, meetings, and family gatherings for which they will undoubtedly be late.
"Damn train's delayed..."
"...sitting for nearly an hour now..."
"...wondering if we could reschedule?"
At first glance, David Brennan would have fit in with the rest of his fellow frantic travelers. Seated at a two seater bench, up against the left side of the train just beside the window, he tosses a pile of magazines and a plain, manilla folder onto the seat to his right, reaching below his own seat and procuring a small, black netbook out of a traveling bag. Flipping open the diminutive computer, he opens his web browser and begins frantically typing at the speed of a novelist struck with the next great story idea. He stops, and his eyes dart from side to side, fixed upon the small glowing screen as he uses his index finger to slowly drag the screen using the touch pad fixed to the keyboard. Finally, he stops, throws his hands up in the air in frustration, and slams the netbook shut with a sigh of exasperation. Haphazardly tossing the computer back into its bag, he leans back in his seat, resting his elbow on what little sill there is attached to the large pane window beside him, and stares out onto the platform just outside the window.
"Well, imagine that. He's of color."
If David had been looking to his right just a second earlier, he would have seen the old bastard approaching from behind him, down the center aisle of the rail car. He blends in well enough with the business travelers - his gray suit, white Oxford shirt, and black and gray patterned tie a stark contrast to David's acid washed denim jeans and his green flight jacket, which undoubtedly hides beneath it some variety of Fred Perry polo shirt, and his trademark black braces. The times have caught up with him - he looks a lot older than the last time David saw him. Fatter, too. Still, he maintains a sort of "dangerously dignified" air about him - his receeding hair is neatly combed straight back, and his facial hair is kept neat - a simple goatee, as he'd worn ever since David could remember. As he poured over the manilla folder that he'd snatched up, unseen, from the seat beside David, he leered with that sh*t eating grin - another that he'd worn since David could remember. No sooner had he cleared the seat beside David of magazines and papers and sat down, the train began to lurch, the woman's voice announcing finally that they had begun their departure.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"You don't think it's funny? Look at him, Davey. Think about it."
As the old bastard handed him the glossy, color promo photo of his opponent, Randel Benjamin, David thought, just as instructed. He knew what he was getting at. The implication couldn't be any clearer, but he was going to try and not give the old man the satisfaction of letting him know what he was talking about. He stared intently at the photo, trying to see beyond the old man's implications. Benjamin was big, no question about it. And yes, he was not of a white complexion. Try and see past that - what else? The scars - the ones on his bald head. They looked fresh. And those eyes - something in the way they held, the man looked like he never blinked. He looked mad - not angry, but crazy. Still, that's all David knew of this guy. Just a picture.
"What are you doing here, Jack?"
"I'm traveling to see family, Davey. A son of mine, my oldest, has got himself a new job - some manner of prize fighter, or something of that nature. I thought it would be, well, nice, to travel out to Cleveland and surprise him for his first big fight.
Jack's voice held an air of old-timer's nostalgia as he spoke. He fixed his gaze forward, smiling, staring into the distance as he spoke. It was an act. A game. David knew him that well. Such a f*cking actor when he wanted to be. Finally, he dropped his airy gaze. His smile fell, turning now to the sordid, fixed frown that he always seemed to wear when not working his facial muscles, and he turned to face David, his held at an angle. His voice dropped too - it always felt boastful and deep when he'd pull the old man act, but when he got down to business, his voice played more real. Raspier, throatier. Such a f*cking actor.
"You don't think it's funny, Davey? Not even a little bit suspect? Your first big fight with the association and they put you in the ring against the first colored guy they could find? That doesn't strike just the slightest odd chord with you?"
Of course it did. David knew, better than anyone else, that was a full blown, blue blooded skinhead. He wasn't trying to focus on that. He knew what came with that territory. But that was behind him now. He was freshly cut, and ready to take on the world, and part of that meant letting the slings and arrows that came with being a skinhead in a world that didn't understand roll off his back. No need to add fuel to that fire.
"That....it's nothing, Jack. Chalk it up to coincidence - I'm new, he's new. It's not exactly the main event. It was just the natural course of action. New guy versus new guy. Burden of the business. Nature of the beast. It's nothing."
"They're painting a picture, Davey, and you're about to become their right wing, neo-Facist Mona Lisa if you don't curb it here and now. Think about it in whatever terms you need to - this is their gateway drug, their first drink, that first drag on the cigarette. "Don't worry, there's no harm in just one. It'll make you feel cool, everyone will like you." They're setting you up Davey, and the sooner you realize that, the better you'll be able to handle it, 'cause it's only gonna grow from here."
"So what would you have me do? Throw the match? Lie down for the pin? Show the world that I can lose a fight with against someone who isn't white and take it like a man because that's the man I am?"
Listen to him. There wasn't even a way to say it without sounding like a bonehead white supremacist. This is what Jack was talking about. He was right. He usually was. David hadn't even gotten into the ring yet and they were already backing him into that corner. Painting their picture.
"You're not going to throw the match - but you've gotta fight smart. You've got a hot headed temper on your hands, and this oppoent of yours, this Randel Benjamin, he fancies himself something of a sadistic masochist. He's gonna break out the weapons, he's gonna try and cut you, and when he does, you can't let that get inside your head, because no one in your Doc Martens wants to be the sharp dressed skinhead who loses his cool and stomps out the colored guy's head on national television."
Listen to him. But then, he didn't care. He would have thrown out "the colored guy" even with a Latino in front of him and an African-American behind him. That's what made Jack, well, Jack. Hell, had that been the situation, he'd have probably used something more vulgar, more slanderous, just to get a rise. Jack was cold blooded - the intent gaze he gave David while talking to him told that much. For as long as David could remember, he'd been that way - shrewd. Callous. Uncaring. Unforgiving. He could go on for days. And yet here he was, side by side with David, on a speeding bullet, headed straight into Cleveland. Maybe, still, there were things that David didn't understand, or couldn't quite comprehend, about Jack.
"Attention, passengers. We are pleased to announce that we will now be serving complimentary beverages in compartment B-3 to passengers aged 21 years or older. Again, we invite all passengers aged 21 or older to join us in compartment B-3 for complimentary beverages!"
And with this, Jack's expression changed once again - his hears perked up at the sound of the woman's voice, the grin returned to is face, and his eyes grew wide and excited as he turned to David. He spoke, once more with that friendly air and bounce in his voice that you'd expect from an old man of his age.
"Ooooh, now that sounds delightful! You coming, Davey?"
"No thanks, Jack. I think I'm going to try and catch some sleep before we get to Cleveland."
"Ah, now there's a smart boy. Sleep well. It's good to see you again, Davey."
"Good to see you too, Dad."
"Attention, passengers. We are currently experiencing delays. This train, bound for Cleveland, Ohio, will depart shortly. We appreciate your patience, and wish you a safe and enjoyable trip."
Her voice echoes throughout the half-full rail car for the third time in 45 minutes. Naturally, many of the passengers are, by now, beginning to show signs of irritability. All around, necks strain to peer out the pane glass windows, looking for some sign of activity, a reason for the delay, or even an Amtrak official at which they can hurl they displeasure. Others make a show of visibly checking their watches, tapping the faceplate, and holding their wrists to their ears (as if watches still functioned in the same manner they did in the 1930's). The few that have given up on making a showy spectacle of themselves have resigned to making phone calls, tying up the loose ends for the appointments, meetings, and family gatherings for which they will undoubtedly be late.
"Damn train's delayed..."
"...sitting for nearly an hour now..."
"...wondering if we could reschedule?"
At first glance, David Brennan would have fit in with the rest of his fellow frantic travelers. Seated at a two seater bench, up against the left side of the train just beside the window, he tosses a pile of magazines and a plain, manilla folder onto the seat to his right, reaching below his own seat and procuring a small, black netbook out of a traveling bag. Flipping open the diminutive computer, he opens his web browser and begins frantically typing at the speed of a novelist struck with the next great story idea. He stops, and his eyes dart from side to side, fixed upon the small glowing screen as he uses his index finger to slowly drag the screen using the touch pad fixed to the keyboard. Finally, he stops, throws his hands up in the air in frustration, and slams the netbook shut with a sigh of exasperation. Haphazardly tossing the computer back into its bag, he leans back in his seat, resting his elbow on what little sill there is attached to the large pane window beside him, and stares out onto the platform just outside the window.
"Well, imagine that. He's of color."
If David had been looking to his right just a second earlier, he would have seen the old bastard approaching from behind him, down the center aisle of the rail car. He blends in well enough with the business travelers - his gray suit, white Oxford shirt, and black and gray patterned tie a stark contrast to David's acid washed denim jeans and his green flight jacket, which undoubtedly hides beneath it some variety of Fred Perry polo shirt, and his trademark black braces. The times have caught up with him - he looks a lot older than the last time David saw him. Fatter, too. Still, he maintains a sort of "dangerously dignified" air about him - his receeding hair is neatly combed straight back, and his facial hair is kept neat - a simple goatee, as he'd worn ever since David could remember. As he poured over the manilla folder that he'd snatched up, unseen, from the seat beside David, he leered with that sh*t eating grin - another that he'd worn since David could remember. No sooner had he cleared the seat beside David of magazines and papers and sat down, the train began to lurch, the woman's voice announcing finally that they had begun their departure.
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"You don't think it's funny? Look at him, Davey. Think about it."
As the old bastard handed him the glossy, color promo photo of his opponent, Randel Benjamin, David thought, just as instructed. He knew what he was getting at. The implication couldn't be any clearer, but he was going to try and not give the old man the satisfaction of letting him know what he was talking about. He stared intently at the photo, trying to see beyond the old man's implications. Benjamin was big, no question about it. And yes, he was not of a white complexion. Try and see past that - what else? The scars - the ones on his bald head. They looked fresh. And those eyes - something in the way they held, the man looked like he never blinked. He looked mad - not angry, but crazy. Still, that's all David knew of this guy. Just a picture.
"What are you doing here, Jack?"
"I'm traveling to see family, Davey. A son of mine, my oldest, has got himself a new job - some manner of prize fighter, or something of that nature. I thought it would be, well, nice, to travel out to Cleveland and surprise him for his first big fight.
Jack's voice held an air of old-timer's nostalgia as he spoke. He fixed his gaze forward, smiling, staring into the distance as he spoke. It was an act. A game. David knew him that well. Such a f*cking actor when he wanted to be. Finally, he dropped his airy gaze. His smile fell, turning now to the sordid, fixed frown that he always seemed to wear when not working his facial muscles, and he turned to face David, his held at an angle. His voice dropped too - it always felt boastful and deep when he'd pull the old man act, but when he got down to business, his voice played more real. Raspier, throatier. Such a f*cking actor.
"You don't think it's funny, Davey? Not even a little bit suspect? Your first big fight with the association and they put you in the ring against the first colored guy they could find? That doesn't strike just the slightest odd chord with you?"
Of course it did. David knew, better than anyone else, that was a full blown, blue blooded skinhead. He wasn't trying to focus on that. He knew what came with that territory. But that was behind him now. He was freshly cut, and ready to take on the world, and part of that meant letting the slings and arrows that came with being a skinhead in a world that didn't understand roll off his back. No need to add fuel to that fire.
"That....it's nothing, Jack. Chalk it up to coincidence - I'm new, he's new. It's not exactly the main event. It was just the natural course of action. New guy versus new guy. Burden of the business. Nature of the beast. It's nothing."
"They're painting a picture, Davey, and you're about to become their right wing, neo-Facist Mona Lisa if you don't curb it here and now. Think about it in whatever terms you need to - this is their gateway drug, their first drink, that first drag on the cigarette. "Don't worry, there's no harm in just one. It'll make you feel cool, everyone will like you." They're setting you up Davey, and the sooner you realize that, the better you'll be able to handle it, 'cause it's only gonna grow from here."
"So what would you have me do? Throw the match? Lie down for the pin? Show the world that I can lose a fight with against someone who isn't white and take it like a man because that's the man I am?"
Listen to him. There wasn't even a way to say it without sounding like a bonehead white supremacist. This is what Jack was talking about. He was right. He usually was. David hadn't even gotten into the ring yet and they were already backing him into that corner. Painting their picture.
"You're not going to throw the match - but you've gotta fight smart. You've got a hot headed temper on your hands, and this oppoent of yours, this Randel Benjamin, he fancies himself something of a sadistic masochist. He's gonna break out the weapons, he's gonna try and cut you, and when he does, you can't let that get inside your head, because no one in your Doc Martens wants to be the sharp dressed skinhead who loses his cool and stomps out the colored guy's head on national television."
Listen to him. But then, he didn't care. He would have thrown out "the colored guy" even with a Latino in front of him and an African-American behind him. That's what made Jack, well, Jack. Hell, had that been the situation, he'd have probably used something more vulgar, more slanderous, just to get a rise. Jack was cold blooded - the intent gaze he gave David while talking to him told that much. For as long as David could remember, he'd been that way - shrewd. Callous. Uncaring. Unforgiving. He could go on for days. And yet here he was, side by side with David, on a speeding bullet, headed straight into Cleveland. Maybe, still, there were things that David didn't understand, or couldn't quite comprehend, about Jack.
"Attention, passengers. We are pleased to announce that we will now be serving complimentary beverages in compartment B-3 to passengers aged 21 years or older. Again, we invite all passengers aged 21 or older to join us in compartment B-3 for complimentary beverages!"
And with this, Jack's expression changed once again - his hears perked up at the sound of the woman's voice, the grin returned to is face, and his eyes grew wide and excited as he turned to David. He spoke, once more with that friendly air and bounce in his voice that you'd expect from an old man of his age.
"Ooooh, now that sounds delightful! You coming, Davey?"
"No thanks, Jack. I think I'm going to try and catch some sleep before we get to Cleveland."
"Ah, now there's a smart boy. Sleep well. It's good to see you again, Davey."
"Good to see you too, Dad."
I dont know good luck 
