Subway Story

Josef M. Reedy woke up. Scratch that last. Josef M. Reedy got up. Struggling with every step, blinking away fatigue, he walked through the door less frame in his bedroom. Scratch that last. Calling the space in which Josef laid in bed would be far too generous a title for such a place. Adjectives fail to describe it however a few statements given by people who have been there that may aid in some vague understanding of the absolutely dismal space might be 'a rats nest', 'a nook', 'a windowless cave', 'infantesimal, and by that I mean it wouldn't be suitable for an infant sized man to live in', and the telling question of 'It's possible for a human to live there?' just to name a few. The answer to that question, to satisfy the interest for those who have any, is that it may or may not be possible. The 'bed', in relation to what one might think of as an inherent aspect of a 'bed'room, was little less than a foam mat, the corner of which having been gnawed off. The culprit of the deed is not known, though it is suspected by some that the sizable hole in the western corner of the room may have had something to do with it. Apart from the 'bed', the room had little else by way of furniture, however, there was a substantial pile of sick collecting in the opposite corner from the dark dismal hole. This all may seem very confusing given almost none of Josef M. Reedy's history. One detail as to Josef's history which is vital to this narration is that Josef has survived several boughts of various types of cancer. Over the course of these cancers, he developed several habits which have made his job, sex life, and standard of living very difficult to maintain. One habit, which he was so unfortunate to pick up, relates to the years of chemotherapy he was forced to endure. The details of which may be discerned by the making an educated observation at the corner of Josef's bedroom opposite the rat hole. In case there is still any further doubt as to this first habit, during his boughts with cancer, he developed a severe case of Bolemia, so terrible in fact, was this habit, that most nights josef was unnable to drag himself out of bed and throw himself into the bathroom quickly enough to avoid the inevitability which is simply being sick anywhere he happens to be when the feeling erupts, obviously displaying the difficulty of maintaining a job. He developed another habit in addition to the Bolemia. Perhaps habit is not the most accurate term for such things that Josef was sticken with, maybe conditions or curses fit better. Another condition he developed was from the medication, which he was prescribed to choke down on a daily regiment, after the chemotherapy to maintain a healthy white blood cell count. This ailment may help clear up the earlier vague allusion as to whether or not it was possible to sleep in that poor excuse for a bedroom. He was an insomniac; it is impossible to determine being that he is the only human who inhabits that room. This, of course, excludes the late night companions who leave him before falling asleep, however, not before relieving him of several months' pay. In addition to the medically induced insomnia, the post chemotherapy also succeeded in causing loss of muscle control in his face, the results of which were that he often had the air of utter apathy and boredom. This morning, after yet another sleepless night, he had an interview for a new job at nine o'clock, having been traumatically sacked from his late job. His boss had found him asleep and in a puddle of his own vomit, ignorant of Josef's many curses, and interrupted possibly his precious few minutes of sleep for that entire week with screaming and a pink slip. This job, the one Josef was about to interview for, would be different, he had promised himself that. He went to his ice chest, for he lacked the funds to buy a refrigerator, and fumbled around for some morsel which he could sink his teeth into. Hands coming up wanting, he decided to go out and buy breakfast. He showered, in the sink, no need for repetition as to the reason why not a shower, and donned his only suit, which his father had given him before passing away, possibly the only thing of some value in his possession. He left his extended stay motel and went into the subway where he would pick up some groceries at the subway mart. The reason why he did not go to a legitimate grocery store is because he was on friendly terms with the manger and could pay a reduced price for whatever he was buying. This man was perhaps the only friend Josef had in the world, the only person whom he was on a first name basis with, except, doubtfully, some of Josef's more regular late night companions. Upon arriving at the mart, Josef began picking out his favorite brands of milk and cereal and putting them in a grocery bag. When he went to pay for his items, he noticed, with fleeting alarm, a new man behind the cash register who Josef had never seen before. Normally Sal, short for Salvatore, a stout and greasy Italian worked there and, it might be noted, for quite some time. Curious, Josef asked the new man John, as indicated by the spotless plastic placard plastered to his uniform, the nature of him working there, behind that cash register, a job which Sal had, up until very recently, a complete monopoly over. John replied in an overly youthful and bubbly way, vexing Josef to no end, that the mart had changed managers and that Sal had left with the old manager.Twenty one or so questions later, Josef became privy to the fact that the previous manager, the one whom Josef called his only friend, had been robbed in the city and clubbed to death in its streets. Josef was destroyed. He was so exhausted from life the, the universe, and everything, however, to react. He simply paid the man and walked out as if on autopilot. He found a nearby bench above the subway and lost himself in his thoughts. After several minutes of deep thought, his thoughts were shattered by the realization as to the reason why he was dressed in his best suit next to the subway. He began walking down the stairs leading to the subway. While descending, a thought entered his mind. How much like hell a subway was. thousands of seemingly soulless, heartless people shuffling about their miserable existences in a sickening daze, rushing to wait in line. His thought was interrupted momentarily as someone snapped a photo of his entering the subway. Josef gave a thought to being aggressive, but his exhausted and achy body would not allow it. He thought of how he looked when he was taking his medication, however, his medicine was not the reason why his face was the way it was then. he glanced at the clock on the wall. Nine thirty. How much like hell a subway seemed to Josef. The only differing factor that Josef could seem to come up with was the biting cold of the subway tunnel and how pleasant hellfire would feel at that time. time. time. The train rushed up in front of him, scattering his thoughts into oblivion. The doors opened. He entered and turned away from the lifeless imps of hell toward the door. As it closed he could still make out the clock on the wall. Nine thirty two. 'My interview started at nine o'clock' he muttered...


...'I might kill myself today'...