But taking the train, especially in Atlanta, can be kind of a wet dream for a speculative fiction writer and editor, especially one with a bent toward the apocalyptic, especially on a rainy day. Take, for example, this picture I snapped while sitting on the platform...
The calm before the first Molotov was thrown...
The flow of glassy-eyed commuters exiting the station told me my train had just left, and I'd have to wait for the next one to amble down the tracks. I took a seat on a concrete bench, pulled out my phone and set to replying to emails and texts. Then, only about five minutes later, I heard the tell-tale horn and saw the gleaming headlight of the dingy, articulated snake of a train approaching out of the muck. My lucky day, I thought. In this town, if you just missed your train, you'll be lucky if the next one gets to you in less than thirty minutes.
The doors slid open. I stood up, tucked my phone in my bag, and boarded. Amazingly enough, not only had the train arrived, there were open seats. I didn't even have to make the choice between standing by the guy trying to take upskirts of me on his phone or sitting next to a rocking, raving, Night Train-smelling, End-of-Worlder. My lucky day!
Then, just one station later, the train pulled to a stop, and the lights went out. I looked up and around at my fellow passengers. Eyes flashed. Bags clutched closer to sides. Keys came out in fists, ready to slash and/or jab. Then the doors opened, and a voice came over the intercom, "This train is out of service. Please exit to the left and wait for the next train. This train is out of service."
Is it Looting Time again? I just wanted to pick up some damned groceries.
Panic and riot averted, we all got off, heads down, and waited on the next train to arrive, to continue on our evening commutes... The rest of the trip droned on with no hindrances or Apocalypse Preachings. I have to say, I was a bit disappointed.
When I swiped my card to leave the station, though, the wind had picked up. The steady drizzle had turned to pouring rain. Through my earbuds, my phone blared a tone I thought was the start to a Daft Punk song. Tornado Warning.
Well, I wasn't about to huddle in Food Riot Central -- I mean, the station -- for shelter, so I took to the street. The wind immediately whipped my umbrella inside-out. I tried to hold it in place, braced against gust after gust. As I crossed an intersection about half-a-mile from the shopping center where I planned on taking retail refuge, a car sped through the red light, blasting its horn, and sloshing street-soot water over half my body. I thought about dropping the umbrella and running, but it seemed to be doing just enough good to hold on. I started thinking if I let go, I might get swept off to Oz. I started thinking that might be a good idea.
As I rounded a corner, thinking, just a couple more blocks, just a couple more blocks, I noticed a back entrance to the shopping center I hadn't seen before. Ducking down and cursing the wind, I lengthened my stride, picked up the pace, and high-tailed it for safety.
Just as I made it to the door, I heard a snap about an inch from my left eye. That good-for-nothing little pocket umbrella ripped apart, nearly taking my depth perception out with it (though it did occur to me that I could seriously rock an eyepatch if the need arose). I threw it in a nearby trashcan and headed inside.
All in all, it's just a story of a shitty day in a town with a lacking transit system. No one died on my way to or from the station. Inside the discount clothing store and the grocery, my fellow shoppers weren't clawing each other apart for the last loaf of bread or a scrap to patch the holes in their tent-city homes. There were no riots, no class wars, no Ultraviolence.
But to yours truly, the girl with the eye for speculative fiction and the penchant for anything with even the remotest sense of Impending Doom, the whole world looked like it could turn into something William Gibson, Neal Stephenson, or even Jamie Hewlett and Alan Martin might have written. And I loved it.
I did get a new umbrella, though. Major upgrade. The wind was so impressed, it died down and quit its bitching.
Proof of Bicycle, Survival, and Fabulous New Umbrella
And maybe I should be glad all this crap's just in my head and on the printing press. I wouldn't want to have to pack my AR-15 every time I need a new cardigan or some peppers and ginger to go with dinner... Or maybe I would. I could definitely rock assault rifle-chique.
*Apologies to Mr. Gibson
*Apologies to Mr. Gibson
I love this and especially the Hewlett and Martin reference.
ReplyDeleteWe do love our Tank Girl ;)
ReplyDeleteLoved it.
ReplyDelete