She Said the Man in the Gabardine Suit Was a Spy

I.

And it is with movement that all the best stories begin.

There are no words in the vacuum of stillness.

All the stories are in the rolling, the creaking, the click-clack of train wheels, the clean light spaces rushing through grey smoky tunnels. Moving means noise, means wiping clean, means scribbling.

II.

The first thing he says to me is, "You look tired."

I think I am. My stomach hurts, and I was already in the mood to feel sorry for myself. I usually like to ride the metro standing, arm curled to cradle a book, and read or look around at the other riders, make up stories about where they came from, where they're going. A jerk on the metro wouldn't move his duffel bag to give me a seat, so a middle aged black man did. He moved his navy sweater over, and as I sank down into the empty space, he said, "You look tired." His companion nods. The man is missing a front tooth, and he has very short, whiting hair. (Later, gesturing toward the empty space where his tooth should have been he says, "I took a fall...I was going too fast...") I think I shrugged a little, or nodded. I was listening to a sad song, and I pulled out my earphones. "Thanks," I say, for the seat.

It's Good Friday. Some people still have ash thumbprints on their foreheads. He asks me if I'm Jewish. I shake my head. Armenian? Persian? I'm surprised that he's guessing something so close. Most people guess Dutch. I don't know why this is. I am not blonde.

"Close," I say, "Iraq."

"So what's your religion?"

"Oh, I'm Muslim."

"Really? You don't cover?" He waves his arms around his head. "You don't wear a---jab--na--"

"Hijab? No."

"Huh. You real liberal?"

I hate this question. It's grating, makes me grind my teeth together. I feel like he's asking, So, you're just sorta Muslim, right? Like, a wonderbread Muslim? Like some sorta got-some-artificial-ingredients-in-there-Muslim?

"I mean, the Hijab isn't really necessary." I'm trying to explain..."My mom never wore one. When she was my age, she even wore shorts."

"In Iraq?"

"Oh yeah," I'm thinking about what people see on the news everyday, so I add, "But I guess times are changing."

Yeah, he says, you and me, our nations, the Black nation, the Iraqi nation. We're in the same place. He pauses. You ain't shy, are you?

No, sir. I reply. Not really.

III.

A long time ago, he was a trumpet player. "One of the five black students in my class at Cal Arts." We talked about reeds, the blues for a while. The metro made a few stops. Folks filed out. Folks crowded in. Now, a man enters. He looks like he's probably homeless. He's leaning a little on a cane, and although doesn't look frail, he seems so. He has a bunch of white plastic spoons and sporks, the kind you'd get at a cheap restaurant or from some sterile cafeteria, stuffed into the breast pocket of his frayed, grungy grey jacket. The car doors swish shut, and as the train lurches to a start, the man sways and collapses. He tries to wave his cane a little to stand, but he's too awkwardly splayed. For 10 long seconds or so, the man lays there helplessly as the man nearest him stands looking down at him.

"Come on, man!" My seat-partner finally shouts. "Help a brother up!"

"Poor guy's drunk," he whispers to me. "Once they start down that path--the drink, the drugs, they fall. Well. Now you know how I fell..."

The standing man begins to reach toward the drunk, and my seat partner's friend stands. I feel like I should gave stood, too--should have given the drunk man my seat--but it's too late. The guy's helping the drunk to his seat, and the man next to me says, "I'd give him my seat but we can't have him sitting by a young lady."

IV.

You seem like a story teller. I don't know quite how the conversation turned, but he began telling me about a girl named "Knacka" (pronounced "na-ka"--I don't know how it was spelled, that's just how I imagine it being pronounced. My new friend slurred his words very slightly. His breath as he spoke had the somewhat-rank smell of cheap wine.) She kinda look like you, same face. Started killing when she was 8, 9 years old. In for so many murders. Started on the drugs. I was sitting by her on the bus to the pen (I forget just how he referred to jail), tears were streaming down her face but she was so gorgeous. But she was so young when she learned to pull that trigger. She had to.

How old was she?

The train was slowing at the Vermont/Sunset station. "You getting off at this stop?" He was reaching for his bag.

No...

Got a pen? I have so many stories. I can tell you so many stories.

(I'm reaching into my bag for a notebook) D'you have an email? I say stupidly.

He laughs at me, "No, girl. I don't have any of that. You know LA housing?"

No...The train's stopped. He yells to his friend, "hold the door" He's really taking his time.

"Kylo, you crazy?" His friend shouts. People are staring. "LA Housing!" Kylo calls as he jumps off the train. Another man on the train gives me the address. The drunk man across from me is sadly looking down at his beard. I start writing.