Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Nashiko

Seen on the Purple Line to Linden at about 8:30 a.m., April 1st, 2013

They told her this was the good part of town. This!

Nashiko had never seen so much concrete, so much filth. She’d never seen people of so many colors. Her mother had always insisted she carry an umbrella on sunny days, so Nashiko’s skin was paper white; her black, almond-shaped eyes gleamed like onyx on either side of her nose.

Years of private education and supposedly good breeding had molded Nashiko into something like a mannequin. She was meticulous and pristine in all things: her clothes, her conversation, her manners. For instance, she was too polite to tell her host student that the train smelled horrible, or that the city frightened her. The DePaul School of Music was supposed to be one of the better programs in the area. It was an honor to be admitted. Nashiko knew that she must set aside all unseemly thoughts and graciously accept the tour that they offered her.

She sat perfectly still, her back perfectly straight, wondering at the natural postures of the other passengers. She did not know these positions were natural; to Nashiko they appeared grotesque.

So my train caught on fire yesterday. Yep. Not even kidding. One of the heaters in the car ahead of mine overheated. It was just a small one, though. They put it out quickly and continued on. Just your average Monday commute.

Tonight I believe I am going to the Tuesday Funk reading at Hopleaf, because culture. 

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