The Answering Machine

The train was thundering and Ronnie swayed with it. He was boneless meat stacked ceiling high, holding the steel pole with his left hand and a sweating Pepsi cup in his right. The car pitched left, and Ronnie pitched right, folding in half, smacking his sneaker down on the linoleum just in time.

Duke watched him swaying because he was too numb to look anywhere else. He could still smell the sweet, charcoal tang of the girl's skin.

Ronnie kept trying to give Duke the handshake, banging the Pepsi cup into Duke's own. It made a hollow, sloshing noise. What are you doing, man? said Duke. He noticed that his voice had become an answering machine that played back a small, gray tape.

There was a Pakistani family sitting where Ronnie was swaying, with a baby in a stroller. Ronnie kept spilling the slush in his cup onto the stroller as he drooped around. The father watched sadly and quietly from his seat as the yellow liquid pooled under the plastic wheels.

Now the answering machine was playing back a message that Duke could barely hear himself. You a good man?

What? Said the Pakistani.

You a good man? Said the tape.

He had thick, wire glasses and the wisps of hair encircling his head formed a halo.

Yes, said the man.

But Duke knew the man was lying. It was his 36th birthday, and he had never been so sure about anything in his life.

text: Max Pulaski