Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

my daily commute brought unexpected relief

Photo by Dan Roizer on Unsplash

The evening trip home on Friday started like any other. Standing room only, positioning myself in the best place to avoid eye contact. Ear plugs in, podcast rolling.

A man I’d never seen before was lurching as the train pulled away, a drunk with aromatic beery breathe. His hair and beard were so long and unkempt I expect he would need a quote for a haircut and shave.

I amused myself with this sort of internal banter, the podcast brought the voice of a man talking about a British explorer from the early 20th century, Colonel Percy Fawcett.

The drunken man was several people away from me, he had at least a meter of extra space around him. An intoxicated guy in a confined area is always a worry for most people.

Nothing to report until we neared Boxhill station, the podcast narrator was up to the part where Brian Fawcett set out to look for his father in the deep Amazon forest. I loved this part. Brian took 13 pigeons with him, which he released at set points on the expedition, 12 came back.

The 13th pigeon and Brian were never seen again. Beautiful — what a way to vanish. The story wouldn't be anywhere near as good if only two pigeons came back and Brian was found dead from heat stroke.

Just before Boxhill station the train stopped dead. Ten minutes passed, no movement. I started to notice something else, intense bladder pain and the need to urinate. After another five of non-motion(there were no toilets on this train) there was only this one event going on in my universe.

As if the universe conspired with my suffering in a sympathetic manner for an instant, the automatic doors sprung open revealing the dark of an in-between station.

The drunk man, no longer a shiftless inebriate, but one of sudden unstoppable determination, launched himself at the open door space, unzipped and almost lyrically cried:

While releasing an amber stream into the dark.

The next instant was a watershed moment for me. A gut level zen satori of sorts. It defined my future direction on some level.

I sprang to the opening, me and the drunk man were now eye to eye. I unzipped and cried:

Releasing my own urgent amber stream into the night.

My thick prejudice against this man melted, in the obviousness of our common organic need.

The doors closed, the train began moving, I resumed my place as did my new friend. The commuters gave me an extra meter of respectful distance and I resumed my podcast.

Kudos to the writer who first inspired this, he loved pop tarts(that’s all I can remember about him).

Interests: Writing, Creativity, Global Change, Outdoors, Liberation, Meditation, Fitness, Diet. Humor. Contact: martingoulding@gmail.com.

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