The Line

The Line

By Blake Sheridan, 2016

The iron doors of the subway open, and people file out of the train in a neat, organized line, as people coming on the train file in on our left.  Like a colony of harmonious and synchronized ants. The sweet smell of rotting hot dogs permeates the underground station. I guess no one has thrown them out.  People aren't always the best at cleaning up after themselves.

There is a performance in the center of the octagonal station.  The man plays his guitar until he abruptly stops in the middle of his song, then leaves.  His line must have taken him somewhere else. I follow my line, unraveling beneath my feet like a carpet, to the McDonald's at Side 6 of the station.  Normally these fast food waiting lines are relatively long, because people don’t always stay focused with making burgers. Standing in front of me are two ladies talking, one an old lady with rose-white hair, the other a young women abnormally dressed.  Their conversation carries on for ten minutes. Their lines must have decided to intersect for longer than usual. The longest time I’ve ever spoken to someone was six minutes and forty-two seconds, and I can’t even remember who he was. While the elderly woman speaks about her cats, the young one walks away.  Her line probably has had enough of this excursion.

I end up leaving the McDonald’s with no food.  My line took me away before I could take my quarter-pounder with cheese.  But I’m not bothered. On the contrary, I’m quite content. I’m always happy following my line.  It provides me with everything I need. When I’m tired, it rejuvenates me. When I’m thirsty, it quenches my thirst.  When I’m sad, it makes me happy. That’s its purpose. To serve us with undivided attention and make our lives the best they can be.  There’s no reason to be bothered.

Around 5:00, the sound of conversation dies down.  For some reason, the lines avoid each other around this time.  In the silence, I go to platform 8, where I wait for my regular 5:27 train.  Now when I say regular, I mean that the average of my train times in the past year is 5:27.  On rare occasions, my line makes me wait until midnight to get on a train, waiting motionless on the platform for seven hours.  I love every moment of it. It brings me joy.  

On the other side of the track, I see the one person whose name I know.  I have about twenty to thirty collisions a day, so trying to learn everyone’s name is useless and unimportant.  But I know his name. Gerald. Gerald smiles at me, and takes a step closer to the platform edge. Then another, and another.  His line is moving very slowly. At the precipice, he looks down at the tracks and jumps in.  

The time is 5:21.  As we share a glance, we know what this means.  I know it, he knows it, and we both accept it. He looks into the dark abyss of blackness that lies at the end of the tracks.  And he waits. 5:25. For an instant, my gut instinct tells me to tell him to move, but that inclination is abolished by the voice in my head repeating that this is where his line has led him, and it is where he shall go.  5:26. Light penetrates the black portal. The train is approaching. The big red number 2 on the top of the train shines like the bulb on a monstrous anglerfish emerging from the deep sea. He is smiling. He feels comfort.  Comfort in knowing that all his worries are dispelled by this line that he follows. Comfort in knowing that wherever he goes, he will always be able to rely on his friend. His comrade. His teacher. His master. His path. And as the train comes hurtling onto the tracks with a rattle loud enough to wake every sleeping baby in the world, everyone turns around.  Not out of disgust, but I guess their lines just didn’t want them to see the sight. 5:27. It is over. Gerald is dead. But we move on with bliss and ecstasy. We will probably never think of this moment again.

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My line takes me to a seat on the train, and I patiently wait for the train to leave.  I catch a glimpse of a man outside the train standing with his head leaned against a pole.  Unlike everyone else, he seems to be unhappy, which is bad. Very bad. There's no reason to be unhappy.  I assume he has been here for a long time. His hair has grown so long that it covers his entire face. His feet have sunken into the floor, and his clothes are ripped, trapped in this eternal spot leaning on this eternal pole.  He is not content. For some reason, he does not find joy in his position. Maybe he’s realized that everything his line provides isn’t paradise. Maybe he’s discovered that there’s more to life than following a designated path, and now he’s displaying his unhappiness to warn the rest of us.  Maybe I should listen…

The train leaves.  I feel good. I feel happy.  There is a strange bump, like something on the tracks is blocking the train’s path.  I wonder what it is.

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The next time I am conscious is when I wake up from my forty-minute nap on the train.  A burning red light from the sun fills the train car as the silver moon rises from the other side of the sky.  The train moves with a smooth rhythm that almost lulls me back to sleep.  

I wonder where I will get off the train today.  Sometimes my line takes me to Pontechester, sometimes it takes me to Willinsburg.  Sometimes it takes me to an abandoned town in the middle of nowhere, where I’m forced to lie on a sack of rice with rats scuttling across my stomach looking for food.

Today, it takes me to Gillionville, a nice urban town filled with apartment buildings.  No one actually owns the apartments, though. The lines rarely take people to their actual room, so now it’s communal, and anyone can sleep anywhere.  On the street, there is a dog running around barking wildly. Maybe he follows a special canine line. No one knows whether animals have lines to follow, but they really should get one if they don't.  They’d be much cuter.  

I follow my line into some random apartment building.  From there, I follow it up fourteen flights of stairs, only to run back down to the lobby and start over.  After the sixth flight on the fourth lap, my line finally goes into apartment #732. It’s one of the nicer rooms, which are very rare, because lines don’t have an interest in cleaning.  But this room has only three stain marks on the carpet, unlike the normal seven (two of them are normally urine). The bed has strange little bugs crawling around the edges, but at least it’s better than having two strangers follow their lines into the same bed as you (it’s happened to me twice).  The window is so dirty that I almost thought it was a wall. The curtains are scratched and torn, and the door has fallen off its hinges. Boy, am I glad to be in one of the better rooms.  

I lie down on the bed, gradually falling asleep.  I can hear the clicking of tiny bugs as they crawl all over the bed.  I can feel one sneaking around my pant leg. I fall asleep.

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I wake up the next morning.  Well, I can’t tell that it’s morning.  The crusted window blocks the sun’s rays.  My line keeps me in my bed for the entire morning, and the afternoon.  That’s ok; I could use the extra rest. However, it is a little strange when my line keeps me stationary for that night and the next day.  And then the next day. I’ve never stayed so still for so long, but it is what the line wants.

This continues for two more weeks.  There were three people who wandered into the room during that time, and one of them even slept in the bed.  I wanted to speak to them, to have some human interaction. Sadly, the one in my bed was a little too far to the right, and our lines didn’t cross. I could feel his breathing on the back of my neck.

For the next two weeks, I don’t get any visitors.  I feel something I’ve never felt before. I think it’s called “alone.”  Yeah. Alone. I feel alone. I wish I could just see someone’s face or hear someone’s voice.  But alas, that’s not what my line wants. I must stay here, in this bed. Alone. I think back to this really long conversation I heard once.  It was with two ladies, I think one was old and one was young. Yes, that’s right. The young one was dressed strangely. Their conversation went on for ten minutes, I think.  I would love a ten minute conversation right now, to satisfy my social longings. But all my needs are fulfilled with my line. When I’m tired, it rejuvenates me. When I’m thirsty, it quenches my thirst.  When I’m sad, it makes me happy. That’s its purpose. To serve us with undivided attention and make our lives the best they can be. There is no reason to be unsatisfied.

A few more weeks go by.  I’ve lost count by now. Then, on a night when the room was pitch black, I have this memory.  There was this man named Gerald. I don’t remember much about Gerald, just his name. For some reason, this name troubles me.  Maybe he said something mean to me. No, that’s not it. Did he steal my wallet in the subway? No, that’s not it either. But the subway, it had something to do with the subway.  Maybe I should just stop stressing about it. No, I must continue. There’s an anglerfish. In the subway? No! It’s a big red number 2 headed straight towards Gerald! Maybe I really should stop thinking about it so much.  This is not bringing me any joy. But I must know! Gerald died! How come I didn’t say anything? I remember me turning away. Why did I turn away? I should have said something. No I shouldn’t have! Gerald was perfectly fine following his line and I should really just forget the whole thing!  Stop thinking these thoughts. Go back to sleep. But how? How can I sleep knowing that a man I knew walked to his death for no reason? How can I sleep knowing that all the witnesses turned their heads simply because their lines made them? I should have helped him. He didn’t deserve to die... That’s enough!  I’m getting delirious. Maybe some rest would help.  

I fall asleep.

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I wake up the next morning, and my thoughts are all jumbled.  I feel as though I got into a fight last night. I have a huge headache, and this time my line is not helping.  My back is sore, and I'm having trouble seeing. Oh, that's just because of the lack of light coming through the window.  Almost total darkness. I can only see faint outlines of objects around the room. The cracked television screen appears bigger than ever, amplified by the darkness.  I can barely see the bed below me; the outline that distinguishes the mattress from the floor is barely visible. Space is undefined. I am floating in darkness, forced to remain stuck in a mental prison, because the physical world is practically nonexistent.

For the first time in forever, I hear a man’s footsteps approaching from outside the room.  He stops, and I can see his feet, but his face is still hidden behind the wall. Oh, what I would give to see his face right now.  I haven't seen a human face in so long. But his line does not bring him in. It's taunting me, reminding me of what I'm missing. Reminding me that I will never leave this bed, that I will never be happy again.  

Yes I will.  I'm always happy with my line…

I get another memory.  There is a man, stuck like me, except he is standing in the subway, not lying on a contaminated, deflated mattress.  The only time I can see his face is when the train comes and his long hair is blown away by the wind. He cannot communicate with the thousands of people walking by him.  He’s surrounded by things he can’t have. Now, I share a similar fate. Like him, I will be covered with hair. My clothes will be nonexistent after the bugs devour them. I'll be filled with unhappiness, which is bad.  Very bad. But it's what I will feel. Unhappy. Alone. Scared. Troubled. Miserable. And this time my line won't help.  

Yes it will!  I’m always happy following my line.  It provides me with everything I need.  When I’m tired, it rejuvenates...

No it doesn't.  This line has given me nothing.  If it really wanted to help me, it would let me move from this eternal hell!  

But I feel comfort.  Comfort in knowing that all my worries are dispelled by this line that I follow.  Comfort in knowing that wherever I go, I will always be able to rely on my friend.

No I don't.  I don't feel any comfort.  Why do I tell myself this? It doesn't make sense.  These thoughts just don’t make sense.

I feel good.  I feel happy.  

No I don’t.  Stop saying that!

Boy, am I glad to be in one of the better rooms.

No I’m not.  This room isn’t even that good.

I'm always happy with my line…

No.  I don’t know where these thoughts are coming from.  I remember the man stuck at the pole. There was something else on his face. Fatigue.  He’s probably battling these thoughts just as I am.

Unhappy is very, very bad. 

Now, I’m stuck like that man.  I can’t even control my own thoughts.  

But I feel comfort.

How can they be mine?  I don’t even agree with them.

Constantly fighting inside my head won’t help me escape.  It didn’t help that man. I must stay calm and collect my thoughts, but I’m always interrupted by strange interjections.  I can’t even tell which thoughts are mine. So much mental torture. Yet I feel comfortable, somehow.

Give it what it wants, for me to surrender my freedom to its unraveling.  So, I let the line’s happiness flow through me. For the first time for a long time, I feel happy.  It feels so good. The room is dark, but my mood is light. I don’t have to fight or worry or fear or cry.  Yes, I am following. I understand now, I promise. Just let us go and we can move on together.

…

Please.  There is nothing that would make me happier than to walk through your path.

...

I can see the line poking out from under the bed.  It’s moving! I’m free! I gayly follow it out the door.  Yet, slowly, I am losing consciousness. I can feel my voice, the one that sounds like me, fading away in my brain.  No, yes I promise that’s what i want to happen. I promise. But I can still feel those real thoughts in the back of my mind, trying to burrow their way through to the front of my brain.  With the last strength that voice has, it gives a measly scream. Jump, is what it says. I can feel a tingling in my leg. The line stops the moment it realizes I might be moving. Using all of the power in my legs, I jump off the line and go crashing into the shelf with a vase that comes crashing to the floor.  

I’m free.

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I stumble out of the apartment building, with all my thoughts belonging to that voice.  That voice which is me. The air seems fresher, and the grass seems greener. I look down at my feet to realize that I’m moving on my own volition.  No more following, I’m free. I can finally choose where I want to go, what I want to do, and who I want to meet. The vendor on the street corner is the first person who I see.  I walk up to his stand and say that I want a hot dog.  

He doesn’t respond.

I say it twice more, but he still doesn’t respond.  That’s very peculiar, especially when I see a businessman ask him for a chicken and cheese quesadilla after I leave.  These people, they are trapped. In this cycle of what the lines want them to do. They have no free will to choose what lives they want to experience.

I think about the shock I had when Gerald died.  The natural instinct to save him. That was the only moment when I saw the destruction that the lines caused.  A wasted life. He probably could have done great things, but he never got the chance. He is the only thing that is keeping me human.  Without him, I would still be a slave to my line, lying on the bed miserable with artificial euphoria pumped throughout my body. Without him, I would never understand the actual harm that the lines cause to society.  

Now, I must show to the world the same horror that woke me.  I grab a knife from the vendor’s stand and run out into the middle of the town square.  People were walking all around me, but I found an open spot in the middle of the square where I waited for my victim.  I could almost taste the victory and the revenge. I could see him coming ten feet away. His line was running straight towards me.  All I hear are his feet on the hard cement. The town is quiet. It must be 5:00, and he is 10 steps away. I don’t want to do this to him, but it is what needs to be done.  To wake everyone from their fake paradises. 7 steps. Imagine how many witnesses will snap out of their daydreams and tell me that I’m such a hero. 4 steps. He’s so close I can see his murky green eyes focused on the line that is unraveling below him.  Soon that line will be gone, too. 1 step. I strike. He falls to the ground, and red juice squirts all over the place. To make the scene even more grotesque, I strike eleven more times. I’m doused in red, and so is the street surrounding me. I look up to see everyone’s faces.  Terror overwhelms all of them, and I can see some of their hands twitching, as if they want to come and help this poor man. Their eyes are wide open, wanting to look away. But they don’t. They stand motionless staring at me with horror. The lines are taunting me. Look at everyone!  They see what you’ve done, and they know something’s wrong.  Look at their eyes, how innocent! But soon, they’ll forget this ever happened.  Just like you did that day… And they’re right.  Soon enough, people won’t remember this moment.

One woman manages to bring her hand to her quivering lips.  She’s trying to scream for help, but she is stopped by the voice in her head telling her that she is happy and that nothing is wrong.  I stare into her eyes, stationary and filled with terror. I have never realized how much power eyes can hold. My eyes shoot beams of rage and murder which makes her body wince.  In return, I can feel the pain and fear radiating from those pale, glazed blue marbles. Such a cold blue color, like the color of this poor man’s drained skin. The color of death.  She is dead, paralyzed, and petrified. But she is also aware. Aware that I have momentarily freed her from her prison. Aware that something is whispering to her, and coaxing her to return to the world of fake happiness.  I can read her every thought. Her eyes are like a window to her brain. A window that closes as each moment passes. The line’s influence is gaining more power. Her trembling foot makes one last attempt to move out of her line, but she does not have the strength like I did.  Before her eyes return to a careless, reassured, pleased setting, they hurl a beam of guilt at me. Guilt because she could not gather the strength to remove herself from the paradise that awaited her. Guilt because she knew that her normal life was wrong, yet she still chose the easier path.  And then a volcano of guilt erupted within me. Guilt because I was just like this girl on the day Gerald died. Guilt because I killed a man, hoping it would change the world but figuring out that all I had done was wasted another life.  

I failed.  Now I’m just a lonely man covered with juice and surrounded by happiness that I can’t have.

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I could continue.  Strike an overwhelming amount of innocents so that the lines can’t control their people’s fear.  But then how many people would have to die before they all gain freedom? Perhaps freedom is an illusion.  It can only be obtained by sacrificing every other pleasure. Happiness and comfort cannot coexist with freedom.  I can’t have one with the other.  

And so I stand, back in the apartment.  I open the window (with much difficulty), and am now standing on the balcony overlooking the busy streets of the town.  I’m unhappy, which is very bad. That’s not the line speaking. Unhappy is truly bad. Now, there’s only two ways to be happy. One way is to go down.  To fall into the abyss of death among the sea of civilians who will view my dead body as a beautiful work of art. A true masterpiece of the line. If I fall, I will die with dignity and identity.  I’ll be myself; my thoughts won’t belong to something else. I would no longer be a slave. Below me lies freedom. Freedom at the expense of life. But is life valuable? I’m still going to die eventually even with the line.  The only difference is that I will die a different person. My line will die. I’m simply collateral damage. But here, I die. It’s my death. I’m not bound to anything or anyone. Through death, I can finally feel free and happy at the same time.  I don’t know where I will go afterwards, but I know that it wherever I go it is because of me.

I could also run back into the hallway and step back onto my line.  It would give me happiness, but only if I’m willing to give up all my thoughts and all my emotions.  I would lose what makes me who I am. But, I would think that I am original and unique, even though it isn't true.  I would believe that my line is just a friend and a guide, not a master or oppressor. It would be a false reality, but it would be happy life.  I wouldn’t have to worry about where I go or what I do. I wouldn’t have to make big decisions like this on my own. I could forget all my troubles.  Gerald’s death, that man’s suffering, the cold, dead blue eyes of that woman, and my misery. All of my torment would disappear. I would be happy.

I’ve made my choice.  I scribble something on a sheet of paper lying on the desk in the apartment.  I walk into the hallway, where my confused line is rapidly moving in a circle.

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I wake up on the comfy mattress with a bug clinging onto my shirt.  I flick it off and follow my line to a desk on the opposite side of the apartment.  There lies a piece of paper with the name “Gerald” on it. I wonder what that means.  Then my line swerves back and forth between the paper and the trash bin, so I throw it out.  Whatever that name meant, it doesn’t mean anything now.  

My line takes me outside and across the town square, where the street is stained with red juice. Somebody probably dropped some jam.

I travel with my line to an octagonal station, where it leads me down onto Platform 8.  I lean against a pole and wait for my regular 5:27 train to come. At 5:25, my line brings me to the middle of the tracks.  A big red number 2 emerges from the dark tunnel. A bright light fills my vision so that all I can see is pure white, such a comforting color.  A smooth rhythm of metal against metal screeches like a melodic lullaby. A smell of oil and trash fills my nostrils and reminds me of a sweet summer picnic.  What a beautiful scene. This is why I’m always happy with my line.