The TriMet

The TriMet

The TriMet red-line light rail ride to PDX took half an hour everyday. James leaned against the window, his head to the glass and saw Evergreens silhouetted first by the light of the setting sun, then far off buildings in an electronic glow. He looked at the hundreds of I-84 commuters as the train rattled down the median, their drivers driving parallel and looking back at him on one side; the cars on the opposite side hurtling away like cannonballs, a red wink of taillights and then nothing at all.
James ground his headphones closer into his ears and found comfort in the one moment of the day he had no control over. He listened to a cache of old folk songs, one CD after another that he had found tucked away in a shoebox earlier, while unpacking. He slid further down his seat and tightened the hood of jacket over his hair, longer now than as far back as he could remember and shot an annoyed look at his only interruption, the electric TriMet voice chanting “6th Street,” “7th Street,” et cetera.
James stood behind the Delta ticket counter, third shift, and worked with quiet efficiency, at ease with the sad-eyed travelers too tired to fight delays and cancellations. He enjoyed the stillness of the giant airport lobby, adorned with glass ceilings glittering with giant hanging ornaments; globes and bi-planes, a gigantic brass clock. After his shift he took the escalator downstairs, boarded the train, and returned to his studio apartment, still acrid with fresh white paint.
It was pre-furnished and carried neatness belayed only by the still unpacked cardboard boxes tucked into one corner, a constant reminder that every space was only temporary. He had taped one painting, a burning red pastel hut that he had been given by someone whom he had forgotten. It blinked out of the white wall opposite of the bed; James considered it before opening a box and gently lifting an old synth keyboard out, before plugging it in and pressing a few keys. Each note broke. He quickly returned it to the box.

Days passed. Ella began sitting across from James. James hated her immediately. She wore her curly hair into a ponytail and chatted on her cell phone for the duration of the train trip, every day, saying mostly idle non-words, “Mmm,” “Uh huh,” and so on. James turned up the music, but still, her voice pushed past Elliott Smith or Nick Drake or whoever. James thought that she was not taciturn. That she probably didn’t even know what taciturn meant. He hated the loss of space, his new found cancelled silence. “One day you’re going to run out of words, hit your quota of words allowed, and just run out” he muttered. “I’m sorry what?” she responded. “N-nothing.”
One day, James was right. Ella ran out words. Her face didn’t change when it happened, it didn’t even move. He saw her calmly try her cell phone (the screen was blank) and a pen (dry). He saw her looking at him, and he sensed her words, Please help. He pretended not to not-hear her.
When he arrived home, he slept face down on an unmade bed. He dreamt he was a cartographer, mapping out a lakeside town he had never seen. When he awoke, he stuck a napkin to his refrigerator. On it he wrote, “Here is a list of predators: doubt.”

Then, the TriMet became quiet again. The silence, first plain, became overbearing. James began to notice Ella, her now chipped nail gloss, her wrinkled blouses. Sad eyes. Scuffed shoes.
He turned his her, shifted in his seat, tried his hardest to affect disaffection, and said, “I saw that they put you in baggage claim over at NWA.” She looked back at him and tilted her head forward. “They have good benefits over there, it’s a good job,” he said. “I know your secret. I was there when it happened,” he said.
“I’m getting coffee at the ‘Daily Grind.’ You should follow me. If you want. If not I understand,” he said.
When the voice called out “9th Street” she did follow him down the street and around a corner. When they entered, James ordered two lattes and Ella pushed a table closer to the window. They sat and admired the swirl designs in the drinks. They watched people walking by watching them. “I just got out of a long-term relationship,” James said. Silence. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t just come out and say things like that. This early on. I’m sorry. You probably think I’m crazy.” Ella looked back and smiled without smiling, James saw it in the corners of her eyes.
“We should do this again sometime,” James said.
The next day James and Ella exited the sliding doors at 9th Street again. They walked - “Just walking,” James said - down the sidewalk, Eastward, their eyes narrow against the sun, across Madison Street, over Hawthorne Bridge. They walked past the rush of early morning commuters, city-wide construction and the constant bubbling water fountains of late spring. Birds, their songs shriller in an effort to rise above the city noise, sang out and were ignored.
At the bottom of a hill, the two found an old bicycle, painted white, covered in roses and chained to a lamppost. “It’s to commemorate dead cyclists,” James said, “Someone must have been hit by a car here.” James and Ella stared at the bike. James said, “It’s a lovely metaphor, I think. I’m not sure if it’s really a metaphor. I can never use the word correctly. You know what I mean though right?” and Ella nodded. “You can nod now? Is that new?” Ella nodded. James smiled.

“You should try music,” James said as the train turned between two building and accelerated up a hill and out of the city, toward the airport. “I think it would help. I have an old Casiotone that’s just collecting dust. Have you ever played an instrument?” Ella shook her head. “It’s not that hard. Do you want to borrow it?” Ella nodded.
Ella practiced. James sat on her couch, read books and magazines. Ella’s playing, first hollow, gathered an imprecise charm. Eventually, Ella became comfortable with opening the window of her second floor apartment, letting the notes ribbon out and onto the street, against the din of traffic and the clattering of plates outside the patio seating of the diner below. She played sad notes, her heavy melodies settling on passersby, layering the sidewalk. Strangers stuttered through cell phone conversations and tripped on cracks in the sidewalk. James recorded it all on an analog mixer. He listened to the sounds until the tape wore out.
Then, Ella wasn’t at work. The TriMet, his TriMet, felt empty. It seemed, to him that the entire thing had fallen into disrepair. The carpet was frayed, the doors squeaked. The air inside tasted like aluminum, stale and recycled. The cars outside felt distant, their engines ghostly under the sound of wheels whining on wet asphalt.
Work felt infinite. James felt first angry, then depressed. He used up his sick days, and then his vacation days. He brought fresh roses to the white bicycle twice a week. James spent his break on searching through items deemed up-for-grabs by the airport lost and found.
He found acrylic paints one day, crusted over but still useable. He had always figured he had a good sense of colors, the way they mix together. The way blue wasn’t blue, but depression and obscenity and idealism. The way green was inexperience and sincerity. The way pink could be sympathy.
He brought them to his apartment and began painting. He painted his walls for hours. Blues and dark greens. White borders. He painted until his heels hurt from standing, then painted anyways. He dedicated each wall to someone he felt he had known. One for himself, one for the dead cyclist, one for Ella and one wall blank.
He painted until he painted something true. He replaced the fluorescent lights in his apartment with yellower, calmer light bulbs. The curtains were kept open.
The summer in Portland was nice. James didn’t mind the humidity. He began leaving his sunglasses at home. He switched to the day shift, and glided on the train opposite of his normal path. More time was spent on paints and canvases.

Months later James found Ella at an Art Supply shop on Clay Street. He saw her leafing through canvas and construction paper, her hair shorter, her eyes, carefully shadowed, turned downward. He walked over to her and said “Hey, I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
James said nothing for a while, and then said, “Wow. How long did it take before it happened again?”
“I don’t remember. I’m sorry. One day, I just could.”
“Well, I’m glad. What are you looking for?”
“Something new. I’ve done all I can do with the Casio. I was going to call you after I finished here. I have it in my backpack.”
“Let’s take it back now.”
“I’d like that,” and they walked out onto the street and towards a taxi. Neither objected when they passed the TriMet stop.
At James's apartment, Ella sat the keyboard carefully onto the floor and turned to James.
“The walls…”
“I painted them after people I know. This is yours.” and he motioned toward one wall, textured heavily in orange, white and red. Ella looked at it and smiled. James said, “The red implies-”
“Whatever it implies is perfect.”
The two stood at stared. They felt the warmth in the room. City noise was dulled.
“I need to leave. I can never see you again,” Ella said, “I hope you understand.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you could do.” The two held hands, briefly, and then Ella walked towards the door.
“Wait,” James said, “How long couldn’t you talk?”
“Forever.”
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Worked on this for far too long. Umm, I hope everyone likes it? Leave a comment?