Yes, But Is It Art?

If only I’d listened to my inner voice, chances are I wouldn’t have sat down across from the man. Inexperience with train voyages left me vulnerable to the whims of travelers. Perhaps if I’d been more worldly, I’d have found another seat across from the old lady with the support hose rolled down below her knees or even sat next to the kid in Tommy Hilfiger gear currently stretched out across two seats.

Thinking back on it, I recall speculating that this man’s presence on the 9:13 a.m. train to Sheboygan, the commuter Day-Tripper, was an augury of malevolence—an omen of villainous treachery. Heavily jowled and dressed in a plain black suit, he personified evil incarnate. I envisioned scenarios of intrigue and danger perched just below the surface of his scowling demeanor waiting to pounce at precisely the right moment; his hypnotic gaze, perched just behind Peter Lorre eyes, invited the unwary victim to step into the parlor and enjoy a cool lemonade and perhaps one of his Aunt Martha’s delicious oatmeal cookies.

Eyes may be the windows unto the soul, but even though an immovable concrete stare greeted me as I placed my bag beneath the seat, I associated only emptiness with his vacuous gaze. Any presence of grace remained hidden in some poorly evolved recess of his psyche, protected by that stare. Worse, he appeared to suffer from some visual anomaly that caused his eyes to seek different focal points, the right focused on me while the left peered at one of the ads prominently displayed above the window.

“Hello.” I offered, still fumbling nervously with my satchel, smiling briefly and nodding in his direction.

“You’re very brave, most people won’t sit across from me.”

“Really… why is that?”

He said nothing for a few seconds. Then, after shifting his weight slightly and jerking his head away from me momentarily, “I suffer from a yeast problem in my groin area that emits a perceivable odor evident upon venturing a little too close.”

A little more information than I might have expected, to be sure. Still, I found his honesty refreshing, if a bit troubling on several different levels. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind, thank you for alerting me. I hope you won’t be insulted if I move, should I find it intolerable.”

“I’m a farmer.” Again, the stare/gaze overtook me.

“Is that so? I might have missed that.”

“Yes, I raise Altoids.”

My turn to stare. “Really? I guess that would explain the yeast problem.”

“What?”

He seemed genuinely taken aback by my comment and offered nothing by way of counterpoint for several seconds, choosing instead to make uncomfortable eye contact with me while removing some nose material and flicking it onto the floor.

“Never mind…" I said calmly, pausing to rub my hand on my shirt in some sort of sympathy-wipe, hoping he'd take the hint, "I was just making conversation.”

The remainder of the trip developed along those lines. By the time we reached our destination, against my will I learned that sextants have nothing whatsoever to do with physical intimacy, cumulonimbus clouds were a major factor in the scourge of scurvy during the seventeenth century, the inventor of the extended warranty died at the age of forty-seven and his wife received a replacement husband within thirty days, lap dances are deductible as entertainment expenses, and that it is illegal to shout “theater!” in a crowded fire. It's amazing what passes for intrigue these days.

As the train pulled into the station, I got up and grabbed my bag. I started to walk past him, and he stuck his hand out into the aisle. With eyes imploring me to grab it, he said, "Nice talking with you."

"No offense," I said, "but, I don't shake hands."

Then, feeling the necessity to offer some sort of explanation for my violation of social etiquette, I stammered, "I'm... I'm allergic to Altoids."