Non-Stop
Bentley and his crew—five basketball players—step toward me. Two sit down, one on either side me. I should have sat on the edge. Their knees rest about 4 inches taller than mine and 3 inches longer. My head reaches their shoulders. I’m like a White Castle slider and they’re BK quarter pounders. Bentley’s standing over me like a kraken.
“Look at you, lame-o. You are so fucking gross. You know why? You want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re horny. That’s right. Bitch, it’s Thursday and you’ve got a green stripe in your shirt. Green on Thursday means you’re horny. You disgust me. Don’t you get any? I get some. I get lots. I ain’t got no reason to wear green on Thursdays.”
I looked down my shirt hanging over my concave, wire-hanger frame. “No way man, the light’s all funny down here. It’s not green it’s yellow.” And then I add, “What are you colorblind?” I bend my head back to see his face. Hair is sprouting from his chin like a few misplaced pubes.
“What are you a fucking idiot retard? I know green, when I see green.”
I stare at the E in Aéropostale that’s written on his shirt. It’s got a funny line over it. It’s a special letter, the outcast letter, the rebel letter. E. Eeee. Eeeeee.
“You make me sick. Sick! I could hurl my bacon, egg and cheese breakfast all over you. And what brand is that? No brand. Where your momma shop Big D? You poor ass loser. Look at me. I’m wearing Aéropostale. Kenny he’s got on Sean Jean. Bill’s got Rocawear. My girl, she wear Baby Phat. What do you wear? You wear green like a fucking horny toad. That’s what you look like with that big ass zit on your face. A toad. You are disgusting.”
Train please come. Train please come. Train please come. I pray to the E. Eeee. From the corner of my eye I can see more commuters. They’re in ear shot. They can hear it. I know they can hear it. I am stoic, holding it down, holding down my hand, my leg, my hand on my leg, my Pop-Tart, my venom, myself. I am holding on tight. I’m watching the E pulse up and down with Bentley’s heavy breathing.
“You’re a retard. A lame-ass loser. You ain’t never gonna have a job, you ain’t never going to have a woman, you ain’t never going to be shit. You suck like the little bitch you are.”
A drip of spit sprays done on me when he says “bitch.” Kenny starts whispering in my ear. “How can you go out in public like this? How can you do it to yourself. You’re just itching for a beating. You want to get beat up. I bet you like getting hit by men. I bet you’re gay. A fucking fag.”
His warm breath tickles my ear almost sensually, almost intimately, almost violating me. It smells like ketchup. But I don’t react. I don’t give them any more of me. I just keep staring at the E. E for enough. E for eek. E for eagle. E for ectoplasm. E for egg. E for me. E for please. E for train please. Train please.
“You are so dumb. You don’t even stand up for yourself,” Bentley says. “You just take it like a girl. Take this!”
He coughed and conjured up a glob of spit. “Watch this!” he says to his crew with a chuckle higher-pitched than a pigeon’s girly, gurgly call. “I bet I can hang a loogie just over his head.”
I keep holding still like a bitch. Like a little baby. I just sit there for it. E. Staring at the E. E. E. Don’t do this. E. Stay cool. E. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t.
“Oops!” Bentley yells.
Oh god. No. I ram my wet head into his gut. I feel where his ribs connect. The bones grind into my scalp. My legs propel me from my seat. My head slips down into his stomach. His hands grapple on my back. My arms wrap around his waist like a bear trap. My eyes see the ground. He’s stumbling backward. He’s trying to pull off my shirt. I see the chipped yellow paint at the edge of the platform. I don’t hear the rumble of the train. He falls backwards. He’s holding me. I can’t stop. I keep going. I fall forward onto the tracks.
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