Reflection: Being Cordial

My wife and I were recently (like today) stuck in Santa Rosa, New Mexico on our way back to Arizona from Oklahoma. Due to inclement weather and adverse road conditions on the interstate, secondary and even tertiary roads, we decided to stick around this town and actually enjoy it. Versus jumping on the freeway just to sit, or getting on a state highway only to be faced with snowy and icy roads.

We encountered a lot of folks that lived in town, and the one thing that astounded me was that everyone, either directly or indirectly, was nice to us. I suppose I shouldn’t be as shocked about that as I am, but I can’t help it. I think it’s for a few different reasons…

(Cue my writing out the reasons in a convenient list, because well I share through writing, and I certainly don’t aim to leave you hanging.)

I live in a big town.

Phoenix is pretty damn huge. I can go most days never encountering the same people twice. I don’t walk into the QT everyday and talk to Marc behind the counter. He doesn’t ask how my morning’s been so far, I never ask about his kids, and I don’t dare bring up the fact that he spells his name wrong. I don’t see Sam buying his morning coffee everyday, nor Lena rushing in to grab a sandwich for lunch. The truth is based on traffic, I may stop at any number of convenience stores. As a result, instead of Marc, Sam and Lena, I may see Frank, Wendell and Hanna. Or I may not.

No Social Consequence.

This ties into the above as it relates to never having to see these people, Literally. Never. Again. If I decide to grab the last Hershey Gold bar before Sam can get to it (I would never do something like this by the way, but it serves its purpose for illustration), he may give me a dirty look, he may even cuss me, but both of those responses would be both justified and rare. Frank may be pissed, but he will likely go on about his day without calling out my selfish action. This means that I get what I want, while inconveniencing a total stranger. Therefore, I never have to see that person again, or deal with their presumed retaliation / response.

Time is a luxury.

Or it seems to be. The fact that I don’t stop and chat with Marc, isn’t personal- it can't be-because I do not know him in the slightest. Realistically speaking though, that early morning QT stop is just the latest in a long line of things to get done in the day. All these things have a timeline attached to them, which means Marc (despite having the potential to be my newest and greatest BFF) gets overlooked. Every hour of my day is already earmarked, and Marc didn’t get penciled into the schedule. This is sad, because I (and I don’t think I’m alone in this) only minimally see Marc as even being human most days. He’s just a button, one that gets pressed so that I get my morning energy drink.

Don’t Get Me Wrong.

Now for those of you that actively label yourself a “people person” you very well could be reading this and thinking, Wow this guy is an asshole! Admittedly, I can be, no denying that. In crowds I’m socially inept, in groups I can be socially off-putting, and one-on-one (save for those that I am closest with) I can be socially awkward. All that being said, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. I am nice to my those hat fill the peripheral space off my life and do actively listen to what they say and even engage them in conversation.

What to do?

I don’t rightfully know at this point, not exactly anyway. However, I am a firm believer that everything happens to everyone for a reason. Yes including that, and yes that, and yes even that horrible thing, no we may not always know why. One day in a small town, that values personal relationships over time, at least has me questioning some of the day-to-day interactions I have with people, which I suppose is progress of some kind.

At the very least I think I’m going to try and remind myself to approach life as though there’s not a timer running above my head, whether self imposed, or otherwise.

So, like-minded anti-socialites, live like you were in a small town, do so in a manner that allows you to make connections, and don’t let time have its way with you.

The Platform

The lean man stood nervously on the train platform, idly referencing a pocket watch affixed to a paisley vest. He already seemed to be well aware of the time. Looking out into the distance the lean man saw an empty set of train tracks that spun off to the east, disappearing into a mountainscape miles away. The tracks were absent of any sign of a train. The sun was setting on the dry plains, but the sad sticks of scrawny cacti could still be made out despite the increasing absence of light.

The lean man returned the watch to his pocket and looked up and down the platform. Seeing other people walking to and fro seemed to do little to ease the man’s tension. At the same time, the man gently nudged a beaten leather bag at his feet, reassuring himself that it was still there.

“Howdy stranger,” a short man in a bowler approached and held out his hand.

Not startled, but wary, the lean man shook the outstretched hand.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance I’m Francis Stillwater.” Stillwater was pale, even against the weakening pink-orange of a lowering sun.  

The lean man just nodded, noticing Francis spoke too fast. Francis also had a tow sack slung over one shoulder.

“You a salesman?” the lean man asked.

“Not exactly. Why, you looking to buy somethin?”

“Not from you. I’d be obliged if you just occupy a different part of the platform sir.”

“I didn’t catch your name friend…”

“You’re awful persistent.” The lean man paused, “Not a salesman exactly...carpetbagger then? I don’t know this town well, but folks ‘round here don’t seem thrilled at the idea of a centralized government, or elected officials.”

“Sir, I’m simply askin’ your name. I’m tryin’ to be polite.”

The lean man growled a bit, stroking his beard, “You aren’t very good at it. Can’t seem to take a hint,” he concluded the sentence by tapping his right hand on the handle of a revolver that hung high on the holster at his waist. The lean man narrowed his eyes at Stillwater, “You don’t seem armed friend?”

As the lean man finished his statement, he noticed the few would-be passengers that were also waiting on the platform drifted from view. Some walked out of sight, disappearing beyond the threshold that led back to the ticket counter. Others still were wandering off towards the stagecoach that was parked beyond the tracks, waiting on the fares of new arrivals. The lean man absently noted the ticket counter held no attendant and there was no train yet, so no new arrivals would be present.

“Hints,” Stillwater laughed, throwing back his head in a way that should’ve made the bowler topple from his head. “Do you see what’s happening around you?”

It drew darker. Not in the way it would from a gently setting sun, but rather in the way that it might before a major storm.

The lean man failed to answer. Without giving tell he glanced beyond the platform, seeing how much fog had rolled in. He could barely see past the platform on which he stood. The mountains were obscured, the sticks of cacti were no longer visible in the distance. The lean man thought it was most unsettling that the sun had not set, but rather faded away. However the moon had not taken its place. Instead the platform’s immediate area was illuminated by an ethereal light. Shaky, and flickering inconsistently this new luminosity reminded him of a picture show he had taken in during his time in Dodge City. At one point during the film he had looked back at the projector and saw the dancing beam that made the show possible, it dazzled his eyes. Although this light was more yellow than white, it made his stomach sour and he suddenly felt the need to sit down.

“Manchester McCloud,” Stillwater laughed again. “That your given name?”

The lean man looked up, he had nearly forgotten about Stillwater, until he again saw the man’s sallow countenance.  McCloud nodded slowly.

“Would’ve sounded great in the papers.” Stillwater dropped his burlap sack on the platform, the fog lapped at its edges, but ultimately let it alone. He held up his hands as though they were framing a headline; “Manchester McCloud, robs the First National Bank of Broken Arrow.”

McCloud, confused, waited for more, like the man waiting for a punchline to a bad joke.

“Too bad you didn’t get away.” Stillwater gave the sack at his feet a sharp kick, its top slightly peeking open.

McCloud’s face turned down, he attempted to exhale. It might’ve been a gasp but apparently it caught in his throat and died.

“Sheriff Loveland put together a posse...any of this comin’ back to you?” Stillwater paused, “No? Ok, you let me know…Anyway, you lost most of ‘em after your ride to get away. But one of those upstanding citizens who was particularly dedicated to the law, pursued you here.” Stillwater stopped himself, looking around, “Well, not here exactly, but in Temple. You decided to lay low at the inn, Vernon Wellston, that upstanding citizen I mentioned, decided to sneak in and shoot you while you slept.”

McCloud’s eyes glossed over.

“I mean, the wanted bill did say dead or alive. And he gave the innkeeper a dollar.”

“That’s, that’s madness.” McCloud struggled for words, “I’m here, I paid for a train ticket out of town, out west. I’ve got enough money to get to California, and then some!” McCloud indicated the leather bag in front of his boots.

“Do ya?” Stillwater asked.

The dreadful churning of a train could be heard in the distance. The air became thick with the sound of twisted metal screaming against itself, but somehow the sound, and whatever was making it, lurched forward.   

McCloud bent over in a fit, looking as though he was about to dive headfirst into the bag. He clicked apart the thin metal clasp. As McCloud pulled open the satchel and saw its emptiness, only a wail escaped. McCloud thought it sounded alarmingly like him. The sound seemed to travel up and into Stillwater’s now open burlap sack.  

A train blacker than coal then ripped a hole through the fog. McCloud peered at the conductor’s booth, but saw only a dim green light coming from where the train’s operator should have been.  

“Say son, how many people you kill during that hold up anyway?” Stillwater asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer.

“I had to dynamite the safe because the damn attendant said he didn't have the key.” McCloud’s eyes, which had been sharp and hard, softened as he began to cry. Through sobs, “Cut the fuse too short. Had to get to cover.”

“But that attendant didn’t get to cover, aye McCloud?”

McCloud couldn’t speak, he looked catatonic, but managed to slowly shake his head.

The train hissed to a halt in front of them. It’s edges rippled as though you were gazing at it through the heat from the top of a fire. McCloud saw it, traced out of shadow flecked with sickly green and blood red. He gulped, it was all he could do.

“All aboard son.” Stillwater asked. It was the friendliest he had sounded since appearing on the platform.

Dual doors on the train car slid aside, allowing a murky light to spill from its insides. McCloud knelt to retrieve his leather bag.

“Eh, leave it, you don’t need it anymore.”

McCloud, compelled to listen, did as he was told. When he was completely free of the platform the malevolent light seemed to envelope him and the doors closed silently.