practice daily (story by Jill prompted by Jennifer's photo)

Jenn gave me this photo on April 30, 2021. I loved reading everything she had going on in her calendar, but for some reason, I honed in on the part about the business cards, which inspired these characters in this scene...

practice daily

    Someone bumps into me as they push further into the train car. I glance around and wonder how much I have in common with those jammed into this crowded commuter train around me. 

    We’re all headed somewhere. At least we all have that. 

    I sort of chuckle out loud a little at my lame joke then glance up at the man sharing my pole. I’m half tempted to ask him where he’s going. I smile, imagining him looking me in the eyes and saying, “Where is anyone going, really?” It would totally be my luck to pick the one philosophical joker on the train to strike up a conversation with. My smile turns into a giggle.

    “I know. Right?” He says.

    Pulling out of my daydream, I snap my head to make eye contact with him. “Oh.” I hold his gaze for a couple beats. “What?” I say.

    “No, I just,” he starts then sort of shrugs his shoulders. “These trains crack me up too.” He shakes his head quickly. “Maybe I misunderstood. Nevermind,” he says then turns his head away from me. “Nevermind. Nevermind,” he says quietly.

    I keep my gaze on him. I mean, it’s rude to stare, but he invited the interaction with his question. And, truly, once I look at him, it’s hard to look away. There’s just something interesting to me about him. He has messy, chin-length, chestnut hair on his head. His beard’s the same color and scruffy, but his eyebrows and nose hair seem to be well groomed, which give away his scruffiness as an act. He’s wearing a raggedy dull, teal scarf knotted up around his neck. Below that are a rust-colored, worn t-shirt and dirty jeans. His arms are toned but not muscular, and he has some bands around the wrist of the arm holding the pole beside me. “Where are you going?” I say, hoping he gives me the answer that made me giggle a few seconds ago.

    He looks at me. “Oh, um,” he says, closing his eyes and scrunching up his face. “To pick up,” he pauses, “business cards.” He looks into my eyes again and laughs then rolls his eyes. “That’s so random.” He shakes his head and breathes out his nose in a sort of chuckle.

    I chuckle too and look down at his arm, noticing the words practice daily tattooed on his forearm. “I mean,” I say, “what isn’t random anymore?” I sort of elbow him.

    He looks down at my elbow jabbing into his arm and smiles. He nods and looks at my face again. “True.”

    “So what are the cards for?” I say. “What’s the random job listed on them?”

    He narrows his eyes. “The what?” 

    “Didn’t you just say that you were picking up your business cards? What do you do?”

    “Oh,” he says and laughs. “Well, they’re not mine.” He shrugs. “I work for a guy.” Then adds, “I do odd jobs for him. He asked me to pick them up today.”

    “Oh,” I say, wondering what work for a guy means exactly. “Are those even a thing still? Business cards?”

    “I guess I’ll find out when I get there.” He laughs. “This guy is,” he pauses, “well, he’s in a league of his own. And I truly shouldn’t bash him because he pays me a pretty penny to do basically nothing for him. Like, run errands and stuff.” 

    “People do that?” I laugh.

    “Some, I guess,” he says and laughs too. “It sounds ridiculous. Doesn’t it? I mean, I show up around 10 and ask him what he needs today.” He glances around the train. “He tells me, and I do it. Some days he’s not sure what he needs, so I stick around for a couple hours sipping bubbly water in case he figures it out.”

    “Really,” I say more than ask.

    “No. Really.” He nods. “I answered an ad like 16, 17 years ago.”

    I laughed, imagining what that ad might have said.

    Then he adds, “And here I am today. Picking up business cards,” he pauses. “I’m screwed when he dies! I know I should try to find something else before that happens, but seriously, man, the money is too good for, like, the 3 hours of work I put in daily. It’s hard to walk away from.”

    I point to his tattoo. “Speaking of daily, what’s this one about?”

    “Hmmmm,” he sort of sighs and looks away for a few seconds. “That one.” He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Well, I guess it’s just a reminder now of a time when I had a lot more possibility.” 

    I stare at him.

    He turns his head and squints up at the stops, as the train starts slowing down. “And,” he says. “I think this is where I pick up the business cards.” He elbows me with his pole arm. “Nice talking,” he says.

    “Yeah,” I say and smile. 

    I watch him walk toward the open doors of the train. When he gets to the doors, he pauses and looks over his shoulder. Finding me, he nods and says, “Practice daily.”

    I smile at him.

    He walks through the doors.

—Jill Morse (written 5.1.2021)