By Peter Alnajjar
He (Aves) walked—no, dragged—His way across the platform, bobbing His neck, eyeing the ground, and sometimes slipping on the marble floor. Not sure how He landed in front of the Metra gates at Chicago Union Station or how He managed to stay alive in this weather we call a polar vortex, he wandered aimlessly among the commuters.
A man (about sixty, grey-brown hair, trench coat) walked—no, ran—right past Him. Just like that. Didn’t even notice Him.
A girl (about twenty, pale skin, heels, tights, dress, necklace, watch, scarf, phone in hand) eased her way to Him, crouching to offer something in her other hand, but He didn’t like it. He jumped up and waved His limbs scaring her off. She screamed and accidentally tossed her phone across the platform. To retrieve it she escaped into the crowd and ran toward her train. She was mad—no, furious.
A boy (about four, sneakers, hat, gloves, North Face, jeans, curious) and his mother (about thirty-five, curly hair, glasses, wedding ring, heels) walked hand-in-hand to platform five, boarding on the Milwaukee District North Line. The boy tugged his mother toward Him. She kept shouting no. She warned—no, ordered—him to stay away.
It took only a second for the boy to never look back. She tossed him up and carried him to the train.
Aves stood off to the side away from the crowd for a moment.
Across the room, a man (brown hair, horn-rimmed glasses, pea coat, leather gloves, passive) was standing next to a woman (curly blonde, red dress, black Louboutins) who was sitting on a wooden bench. Another man (greasy, hairy, dirty, hopeful) approached the couple. Not sure what they were saying. Their mouths moved with their hand gestures. The dirty man patted his palms on his pockets and pointed at the ticket booths and the trains. The other man took off his leather gloves and picked at the inside of his Louis Vuitton wallet. By the time he lifted a five with his index and middle finger, the woman had already given the dirty man a one. He slid the five back in his wallet and into his pocket. The dirty man shook their hands and walked—no, skipped—to the ticket booths. The couple returned to conversation, as if nothing had happened, as if the world expected short surprises.
Aves disappeared into the hands of a woman (late fifties, possibly Mexican, hooded sweater, zippered coat). He kept His head down and looked from side to side as she stared at Him. Reaching into a Dunkin’ Donuts bag, she ripped off bits of her bagel and ate them, right in front of Him. Nothing seemed to bother Him. Then she started ripping bits for Him and tossed them on the dirty, marble floor. Where businessmen drag melted snow and Chicago smog. Where the depth of perception is lost in the freedom of travel. What most people pay attention to because it’s easier to look down than up. At that moment, all the passersby were looking down at Him as He ate every bit of her bagel off the floor. She put the paper bag in the trash next to her and stared at Him for a while longer until the boarding announcement for the North Central Service to Antioch blasted on the overhead speakers. As she headed to her gate, she looked back only once. She gave Him the kind of look that’s reserved for a longtime friend. He never looked up at her. She turned around and walked—no, trudged—toward her train.
A man (about twenty-five, bleach-blonde hair, light freckles, dressed like an underpaid winter model) entered Union Station with his guitar case and a black tote bag. He laid his case between platforms 3 and 5 and unlocked it. He pulled out the guitar, attached the straps, and set it aside. From his tote bag he produced a blank, white poster and a black marker. His back faced the crowd while he wrote on it. As he stuck the sign in his open case and turned around, people began to notice.
The sign read “finding my way home, tips appreciated.” He continued his pre-performance ritual by tuning his guitar. People could tell he was nervous from his now-pink ears and his constant urge to wipe his hands on his pants. He quickly moved his left hand from the strings to the headstock and his head from the neck of the guitar to the body. As he did this, he noticed Aves sitting nearby and stared at Him for as long as an artistic moment lasts. Aves greeted him with a quick up-down motion of His head. It was all the man needed. His guitar skills were intermediate at best, and the few people who began to notice started to drop their heads back down. Background noise. And then, he stopped. He returned to tuning again. For a while, nothing happened. And then, he continued playing again, different music. Faster. Lighter. People removed their headphones to hear. In this transition of sound, the man began to sing:
Trying to learn how
To fly underground
Because I’m stuck in here
Finding my way home.
Could it be that home is underground?
And that I’m a pigeon
Among the bats
Among the crowd.
His voice drew in dozens of people. It was raw and complex. His songs had a dark undertone in their liveliness, singing his deep sadness into a cheerful prayer. Some people threw him singles. By his third song, he had enough to buy a ticket.
“Thank you for listening,” he said.
He packed up his gear and walked—no, flew—home…
The same dirty man came back to the entrance gates. He walked—no, forced—his way over to a boy (late teens, hands in leather-sleeved trench coat, olive skin, apathetic) who sat on the marble benches. The dirty man hovered over the boy taking a long, curious look. The boy took short glances at him, waiting for him to leave. Then, the dirty man asked, “You Arab?”
The boy lifted his eyes at him and dented his eyebrows toward the center.
The man sat down next to him. “I mean, no disrespect or anything, but ya just look Arab to me. Like, are you from Saudi Arabia? I won’t judge ya or anything, I just wanna know, ya know? Personal reasons.”
“Yeah. I’m Arab,” the boy said.
“I knew it! I’m Arab too, ya know. From Egypt,” the man said.
“Great.”
“Hey wait, are you Muslim too?”
“No. I’m Catholic.”
“Oh wow! Good for you! Good for you, man! Ya know, there’s not a lot of those. You’re different, man. Unique.”
“Thanks.” The boy kept looking across the platforms, possibly trying to find an excuse to leave.
“Ya know—I’m Muslim, but I’m not like Muslim Muslim—ya know? Like, I read the Qur’an, in English of course…you know Arabic, man?”
“Only conversational Arabic. Can’t read or write it.”
“Yeah man, it’s a hard language to grasp! Anyways… I like, read the Qur’an and everything but I do some things that are Catholic too. Like, I’ll go to a Catholic church or something and pray. It’s all very interesting to me. It’s crazy too! How some people say ‘my God is the right God. Follow us’ like it’s all the same shit. Isn’t it? We’re all just tryna find salvation in something. Am I right? What do you think, man?”
“What? What do I think?”
“Yeah! Isn’t it all just the same?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged.
“Well, what most people don’t know is that the Catholic, Jewish, and Islamic God are actually the same God. We just think of Him in different ways. And I just take the good things from all these religions and make it my own. You know?”
“That’s great, man. Look, I’m just waiting for my friend so—”
“Oh! A girl-type-of-friend?”
“Sort of. I guess.”
“Damn, look at you! You some kinda playa, huh?”
“Not really—”
“Listen, I’m tryna get home to my family. I’m short ten dollars for an Amtrak ticket, and it’s leaving pretty soon. Think you can help a brotha out?”
“I have ab-so-lute-ly no cash on me.”
“Well, there’s an ATM across the street if you wanna—”
“All I have is my monthly pass.”
“Oh…oh ok, man. Yeah. That’s fine. I believe that if you did have the money, you would’ve given some to me. Alright, well, God bless. What’s your name?”
“Paul”
“HA—a nice Catholic name! I’m Usama.”
Usama left toward the ticket booths again, leaving Paul alone.
Aves stayed in between platforms three and five. He may have been looking at the overhead clock. It read 6:26.
A woman (naked) appeared on the platform with a snake carcass accessorizing her neck. Two guys with cameras and a boom operator hovered over her. It was probably one of those Naked and Something reality shows. Her straight posture was infectious as commuters unpeeled their focus off the floor. Her curly brown hair was covered in filth but rested smoothly on her shoulder blades, and the dirt streaming across her body defined her weak muscles and ungodliness. She looked across the platform, piercing commuters with the color of knives in her eyes. She grew an audience of disciples and skeptics into an arc. Everyone grabbed their phones, and soon only the eye of their cameras was seeing, every shot like a white bullet for her soul. The silence of the crowd escaped into a roar of whispers and then into singular shouts reiterating the obvious: “She’s naked! She’s naked!”
Their responses were real and probably what the show was hoping for, but it wasn’t real. No one would actually stand in public naked with a dead snake wrapped around her neck. It was a game. She was most likely an actress. But the look on her face began to melt in the shallow puddle of the crowd encircling her. It seemed as if she wanted to fill that puddle with tears. But from her agony, a moment of transcendence rose. She grabbed the snake with her tired hands and offered it to the crowd. Some were tempted to touch it. Others were scared of it. But, they all shook at the sight of death and were blinded by the paleness of her skin. The reality cameras focused on her as much as they could as she wrapped the snake around the invisible puddle by her feet and then stood straight back up. This must be the rising action on the show. Flashing lights and more shouts. Aves began to drag His way through the crowd. No one noticed Him. He broke the barrier between audience and performer and still no one noticed. Not until He crouched down close to the snake and started examining it did people notice. The cameras stopped flashing. The silence grew louder. And all eyes returned to the marble floor. Aves pulled His neck back and jerked it forward repeatedly, puncturing the snake’s flesh. He was eating the snake. He was… eating the snake. Everyone started taking pictures again. Their faces were stressed from disgust. It was disgusting—no, intriguing. He ate the whole snake. All of it. Then, the boom operator came around and wrapped the naked woman with a robe. She strapped it on tight and left.
The crowd stuck around for a while before slowly dispersing. Aves fixed Himself between three and five.
It was now 6:34.
A woman (early forties, brown hair, red bandana, black boots, benevolent) carried what seemed to be a heavy bag on her hunched-over shoulders. She stopped walking when she saw Aves and stared at Him with hypnotic eyes. He stared back. They remained motionless until a man (late forties, blonde hair, purple pants, confident) hugged her from behind, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
“Ready to go?” he said.
“How do you think he got here?” she said.
“Who?”
“Him.”
“They’re all over this city. It’s not surprising.”
“But of all places…why here?”
“I don’t know. I guess because there are a lot of people here that will feed him. Alright, come on, let’s go.”
She dropped her bag to the floor and unzipped it.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“I think I have some food left over from lunch that I can give him.”
“Oh come on, Lucy. We don’t have time for that.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out an apple.
“All I have is this. Do you think he would eat it?”
“He’s definitely not interested in the apple. But I am, since I’ve been waiting for an hour,” he smiled at her.
“Fine. Here.”
They stared as he grabbed the apple and took his first bite.
