Mental Diarrhea – Mr. Joel Kemp

The stone cold faces plague the car; a ride with corpses; emotionless.

The children smile, jovially; they, too young to become jaded to the daily commute; the encounter with the dead. The laughter, the enjoyment of swinging around filthy steel; if only for a second, could this sight penetrate the angered shell that encases the kid-like joy that once existed; we too could embrace.

“Miss, would you like to sit down?” I gesture, querying courteously. The skinned slate molds, in a nanosecond, into a smile. “Thank you.” She replies, as I grow scared of her bipolar nature. I slide over near the wall of this two-seater.

Dear Sir, could you please not leave your newspaper on the seat as you leave the train? I wonder. Could you please not dispose of your mint wrapper on the hypnotic floor I engage? You broke my lustful daydream of Britney Spears, in all her thick beauty; shame on you.

Dear miss, I think to myself, could you stop staring at me as I write this? For I write of you, whose uneventful face epitomizes the dread of this hour. I am a writer madam, not a scribbling weirdo; though, alike in many ways.

Sir, could you not spray that much cologne before you leave your home? I think. A shower would suffice mister; curing that awful smell that embodies your milky skin. I should ask the same of the man to my right, as I sit to the left of the reflective wall of car 2549.

Sir, could you please lower your music? I think of the man to my diagonal. I’m impressed that your cell phone can play the mp3 format, a true feat in micro-technology; however, the incoherent lyrics of “Fitty Cent” and “T.I.,” are more babble than the baby across from me can spit.

And of course, the occasional psychopath who insists in sharing his lunacy; barking, babbling, mumbling, and hysterically laughing amidst a stale car. What a nut, I think, watching him in my peripheral.

What an ass, I remark to myself, as I stare at this fine Latina.. She mustn’t be more than nineteen. Her bottom, round and wide, tantalizing my thick fetish; emaciated intent; inviting meandering thoughts of eroticism, as my Old Navy jeans tighten. She rotates a few degrees, revealing a baby carriage, masked by her succulent bulbousness. Shit, there goes another young Latin mother, as I look away, afraid of impregnating her with a stare. Yes, that sensitive to pregnancy.

I look down, noticing an untied shoe. I bend down and engage, embodying the rabbit-eared methods of yesteryear. “This is 145th Street, transfer here to the A, B, and C trains!” Alas, salvation…