E. R. Braithwaite - Reluctant Neighbors

Reluctant
Neighbors

E. R. Braithwaite

I HAD IT CUT VERY fine, allowing myself barely ten minutes for the half-mile drive from home to the railway station. Two traffic lights and a policeman on duty at the main intersection kept me careful of the 23-m.p.h. limit, but I made it, just beating a white Cadillac to an empty parking meter, my luck continuing with an empty double seat in a fast-filling train compartment. I put my briefcase on the luggage rack and settled myself comfortably near the window, smiling at the memory of the Cadillac drivers furious face, wondering if hed find another parking space in time to make this train; not much noblesse in the daily hustle by too many cars for too few parking meters in the station forecourt.

I watched the latecomers jostling each other through the doorways, hurrying for the remaining seats, greeting friends and acquaintances, fitting overcoats, briefcases, hats and packages onto the luggage racks and settling down with The New York Times or Wall Street Journal . Mostly the Journal , folded casually, suggesting familiarity with its complexities, as if high finance were the prevailing occupation or ambition, or at least a respectable false front for humbler pursuits. Soon the compartment was full, except for the vacant aisle seat beside me. Hopefuls would rush towards it, then veer away down the aisle and out to another compartment, reminding me of wide-winged bats in the Venezuelan twilight darting narrowly past near-invisible telephone wires. It amused me to observe these travelers and speculate about their acute sensitivity to the invisible presence on the seat beside me, or perhaps to both of us, me and my invisible companion. It had to be him who was frightening them away because, if familiar indicators could be believed, any of them would welcome the company of a successful author-diplomat-educator on the hour-long ride. After all, any normal American is drawn towards titles, position and success.

At last a bolder spirit, who first did the familiar ritual dance up and down the aisle looking for some other seat. Finding none and resignedly broaching the repellent shield around the invisible presence. Sitting on it, settling comfortably on it and carefully putting up his own Wall Street Journal barricade. Enough pages to insulate and isolate him all the way to New York. I simply closed my eyes. Then we were off, and immediately we were thrown heavily against each other as if the irreverent train didnt give a damn. Closer than groupies in a sensitivity session. Getting more for our money than our tickets promised. Jammed closer than neighbors with each shuddering jolt, each prolonged sway. After one particularly violent bump I opened my eyes.

My reluctant neighbor was carefully folding his paper in capitulation. Lowering the barricade. I smiled inside myself, anticipating the next move, wondering what hed use for an opening gambit. The weather? The war in Vietnam? The so-called Attica rebellion? Stocks? Bonds? Perhaps I could put on an act for him. Wait for the conversational overture, then reply in French or Spanish, or maybe pidgin English. No, that would be too easy. For an occasion like this I needed something exotic. Senegalese or Swahili. Exotic or terribly, terribly strange. But no. He placed the folded newspaper behind him, inched himself forward for greater comfort, closed his eyes and seemed all set to doze through the rest of the journey. The train swayed around a bend and threw him heavily against me.

Sorry, he apologized, hope you dont bruise easily.

Not to worry. Ill survive. Smiling inside myself at how easily I had been trapped into a simple, familiar rejoinder.

Dont be too sure, my friend. Ive been riding this railroad for eighteen years, and I wouldnt take any bets on surviving, believe me. Getting no response, waiting for none. Very knowledgeable about lousy trains, lousy outdated equipment, lousy incompetent management, lousy schedules; the train doing its best to encourage the gentle intrusion.

I thought of the casual my friend. With that for starters wed soon be well away now that hed conceded my presence. But why should I acknowledge his? No, I didnt bruise easily, and even if I did, it wouldnt show. So I could close my eyes again and accept the bumps for the rest of the way.

Visiting these parts? His face turned towards me, pink, smooth and narrow, light reflecting off the rimless glasses to obscure the eyes; gray-streaked brown hair worn fashionably long, youthfully uneven. Why the hell would he so readily assume I was visiting these parts? He and I had boarded the same train at the same station which was the departure point for this run into New York. Id not exchanged more than three or four words with him. Was there something unusual or unfamiliar about me? Hell, lets play along and see where it might lead.

No. Residing in these parts. Flat-voiced.

New Canaan? The two words hanging there between us, weighted with his surprise, or shock or unbelief.

Yes. New Canaan. Why? My guts tightening.

No reason. Just that I make this run daily and Id not seen you before. Trailing it off, backing away from whatever it was he heard in my voice. If hed been lucky enough to find another seat his record for not seeing me would have remained unbroken. The way hed said New Canaan? Nose, mouth, spectacles, everything about him sharing in the surprise, the shock, that an outsider had invaded his sovereign earth. I swallowed to ease the dryness in my throat, the hot rage mushrooming inside me. Arbitrarily, contemptuously they believed themselves entitled to the best on no other qualification than that pallid skin. 1971, and nothing had really changed. Zoning laws had replaced the NIGGER KEEP OUT signs, but hell, those stately trees could still support a weighted rope.

Steady, I advised myself. Keep it cool. So it happened today a little earlier than yesterday. But it was sure to happen. The time, the place, the manner of its happening was of little consequence. Sometime in the course of each day, or that part of each day that I spend in inevitable intercourse with the white man, his contempt will seek some way of expressing itself. Each day. Every day. And me, stupid me, always so preoccupied with simple concerns of living and doing, and always caught unprepared for the indignity and the contempt. Today was no exception. This son-of-a-bitch beside me.

Cool it, man. Again I told myself. Control, man. Turning to look at him. It was there, the contempt a ubiquitous nuance in his every word, an irritating dimension to his every look, a broken thread in the uncertain fabric of his smile.

Do you live in New Canaan? I asked him. Not caring. Not really wanting to know.

Oh, yes. All my life. Born and raised here ready to let it flow, but I cut it short.

Thats rather strange. It just occurred to me that Id never seen you around before. Unsmiling.

He hesitated, as if pondering that, then: Touch. He laughed, holding both arms up in mock surrender, a risky venture on that roller-coaster train. The stone in his college ring fleetingly caught and held a glint of sunlight. I walked right into that one, didnt I? Chuckling and straightening himself, adjusting the position of his body towards me. Legs crossed carefully to preserve the sharp crease in the slacks of his green-flecked brown suit. Making the chameleon change. Ready for conversation. Seeing only my pin-striped gray suit and black face. He couldnt know about the rage which could overspill at any moment. That bit about New Canaan was jangling discordantly in my ear. What the hell was so special about New Canaan? The air was clean. Sure. Green trees everywhere, park land and garbage-free streets. Sure. And courteous policemen, friendly shop assistants and the welcome wagon. Sidewalks free of the dog-shit hazard. Fine. But the people, black and white, all wore one head on one body with two arms and legs and occasionally bad complexions. Like everywhere else. And the rents were high. Not a damned thing was for free. Not the clean air or the green trees, or the skunks doing their nightly thing under my bedroom window.