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Richard Lloyd Cederberg, click here
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At a glance. Non-fiction
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0 minutes
It was miserably hot and humid. After stopping at a traffic light, near the Lemon Street junction; my eyes were drawn to a single-axle delivery truck weaving on the other side of the road. The driver’s cigar was tightly clenched in snarled lips; the grind of making his daily quota was clearly etched in his tense features. Spring Street, on the east-side, was filling-up with more traffic than usual and everyone was vying for position, especially the prigs posturing in their air-conditioned yuppie-cocoons.
1 minute
I noticed, nearer the tracks, six milling near a lamppost. Two were sharing a cigarette. Another was rubbing her temples. Three were passing a liter of coke and complaining loudly that the trolley was late again. Others were peering up and down the tracks, and also at their watches, as if this ritual would somehow speed the train’s arrival. A disheveled man, standing several yards from the tracks, was pouring water over his head from a bottle and picking his nose. Suddenly car horns were blaring behind me. Then I heard ugly-cursing. Seconds later - like a bursting pimple - two incensed males exploded from their vehicles and began posturing with one another like puffed-up roosters.
2 minutes
Nearer the intersection four misfit’s lit cigarettes as half a dozen young girls stepped-off a school bus. All living breathing examples of modern fashion; the girls were dressed far too barely. Pierced navels, too much breast, too much leg, haughty looks; too much of everything showing except good sense. Not at all furtive; the boys began ogling lustfully as the girls strutted by. During the ritual one of the girls turned with a sneer and flipped the boy’s off. The behavior was ludicrous. The boys kvetched angrily as the girls snickered with a kind of devilish delight. After blurting something unintelligible the boy’s turned-on-heel and slunk off towards the gate crossing. Snickering still the girls moved away down the platform.
3 minutes
I glanced up briefly to see if the traffic light had changed. It hadn’t. In the distance the repetitive clicking of steel wheels, on steel tracks, was singing now. Seconds later the federal-horn began blaring. Tip-lights and buck-lights began flashing. Bells began clanging, and the crossing gate slowly descended. Most, still milling by the snack dispensers, and along the platform, ran to the loading lines to wait for the train to stop so they could board. The last few (who hadn’t done so) frantically paid for their boarding-pass on the ticket-machines. An officer from the LMPD had confronted the two men still arguing. With a firm resonant voice he instructed them to ‘stand-down’ and return to their vehicles. The officer’s eyes were alert, and he held an unwavering hand on his weapon as they moved apart. Both men re-entered their vehicles angrily and slammed the doors.
The last 30 seconds…
As the train rolled into the station several adjusted their clothes and glanced at their watches. The traffic light had not yet changed and some around me were revving their motors impatiently. In a sweeping glance I saw a Trolley Cop approach a grungy-looking man sitting in the middle of the sidewalk drinking from a bottle in a brown bag. Also, a frantic woman, pushing a stroller, bolted across the tracks (in front of the train) so she could board on the correct side. The disheveled man, who, a couple minutes earlier, had been pouring water over his head, was now rubbing his face with both hands and inching backwards towards the approaching train. As it rolled into the station, the appropriate crossing guards opened and lights turned green. Traffic began inching forward. Out of the blue people began screaming. Glancing left; I starred in wide-eyed horror. The disheveled man had somehow fallen backwards into the path of the train. He’d been dragged under as it came to a screeching halt. There was nothing left of him but parts.
Richard L. Cederberg
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Web Site:
richardlloydcederberg.com
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compelling read
Your presentation was vivid and mesmerizing. Kudos. One small note. In the second minute, boys and males is not possessive.
Ron