A Mess of Inequality

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I don’t mind the rattle anymore – now we all suffer the same. We should all suffer the same, being tossed about in this rotting train car underneath a city of filth. Why did the people show mercy to him and not me? Just because his eyes did not express the same dull world which I must survey he is to get special treatment? I am the one who must interpret this hell whole – why am I not the recipient of warm gestures and kind faces? Wait – I must stay on track, I will inform you, from the beginning, so you too can share in my current delight of unified displeasure. He walks down the staircase, everyday around eight o’clock, 96th street station I believe, and boards the 1, uptown. Ahead of him, he carries a long, homemade guide stick of sorts, suggesting his inability to perceive the world around him. He scuffles his way to the platform, a myriad of citizens offering their assistance, as I stand against the gritty wall, alone and observant. Not once have one of these kind hearted folks attempted to assist me, I must alter this inequality – it should be fair, shouldn’t it? I planed for a few days, scrutinizing from my gritty location on the platform. When does he come, how, what days? Because of his condition, he is easily accessible. People assist and he never contemplates their motive – kindness and compassion. It was timed, it was planned, and it was ready for execution. I stood in my regular spot for some time waiting for the ]old geyser, finally he came. Offering a clammy hand of assistance, I escorted him onto the platform, to the very last car of the lifeless train. The rattlely, mess of a train, set off uptown. He must have counted the number of times the train stopped – in order to know when he arrived at 116th, because when I told him we had not yet arrived, he questioned me. As planned, amid the darkness of the underground tunnels, I pulled the emergency stop in our car. Being very keen on the usual sounds of his daily train ride, the old man expressed some fright at the screeching of the breaks. He asked many questions, none of which I honored with a response. After the mess had come to a stop, I manually forced open the rusty door, a task much harder then I had anticipated. After some shouts of horror, I departed the train, dragging the old man behind; smiling all the way to ensure others saw my assistance as an affable affair. We made our way down the muddy tunnel, as the old man complained of pain – another of his daily flaws I assume. I needed to locate the nearest electrical room. This was the only element I had not planned – but one of the most important. I walked for some twenty minutes, dragging his old bones behind me, feeling as blind as the old man himself, in search of a location to store his arrogant soul. I had thoughts of merely throwing him on the tracks as one of those rattling trains came through – no, too easy. Finally, through the foggy dust, I noticed the blue light, signifying an electrical room. We made our way into the even darker room, I still not having spoken a word. No need for chains ropes and ties! I simply closed the poor excuse for a door, leaving his pitiable excuse for a human behind, on my way to the nearest station, 125th street I believe – quite a walk. I think he is a professor, judging from the briefcase he clutched; his students must bask in the void I have created! Oh the good I have done for my fellow man, oh the displeasure in equality!

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