The Happiest Man On The SubwayA Story by Rasputin A well-dressed man, appearing to lead a charmed life, becomes the subject of speculation to his fellow subway passengers.
He stuck out like a sore thumb on the subway.
He didn't look like the rest of the passengers. They all had sweatpants, t-shirts, jeans, work uniforms. A few of them were wearing clothes from the Salvation Army. At least one was homeless. He was wearing a five-hundred-dollar suit. Brand-name sunglasses. Two-hundred-dollar shoes, built to withstand carpeted office flooring and not much else. A fifteen-hundred-dollar Rolex watch. He had an expensive black leather briefcase on the seat next to him. He was reading a copy of the New York Times. Nobody seemed to be looking at him. But they all were. Sometimes they would cast furtive glances in his direction, glances so clearly intended to appear casual that they were anything but. They all pretended not to be aware of him. They pretended that he didn't stand out from the rest of the crowd. He may or may not have known, but they were all thinking about him. He was in the foreground of every one of their minds; the focal point of their thoughts. Some of them envied him. They knew nothing about the man himself, so they formed ideas about who he was based on what they saw. He was dressed differently, sure- none of them could have afforded such an eye-catching suit. They imagined that he was a stockbroker. A corporate attorney, maybe. A banker. Maybe he was from out of town. Maybe he was a foreigner, here on business. Why he rode the subway was anyone's guess. None of them could know for sure. But they all imagined. He was maticulously groomed. His hair was slicked back with just enough pomade to look professional. He didn't have so much as a hint of acne. He had no trace of a five-o'-clock shadow, but he didn't exactly look clean-shaven. He looked more like he had never shaved in his life, yet somehow had never, or would ever need to. Every square inch of him was perfectly synchronized. He even carried himself differently. He sat with perfect posture. His back wasn't hunched forward or misshapen in any way. He didn't look tired. His eyes were hidden by his sunglasses, but they were certain that he didn't have the look of world-weary defeat that seemed to imprint them. So some of them envied him. They imagined what it would be like to be him. They imagined what his house must have looked like. Maybe it had a nice layer of stucco in front. Maybe there was a long, winding driveway that led up to the garage. And maybe he had a sports car in the garage. Maybe he had multiple sports cars. Maybe he had a gorgeous, loving wife. Maybe he had kids. Maybe he spoiled them. Maybe he was putting away money for their college educations. Maybe he and his wife had a nice little nest-egg squirreled away for their retirement. Some of them hated him. They resented his obvious wealth. They resented the hands that life had dealt them. They despised him because he looked like the type who went on luxury cruises to the Caribbean. They loathed him because he might have had a vacation home in Aspen. They couldn't stand the fact that he had all the chances that they never had. One or two of them entertained fantasies of mugging him. Others fantasized about being him. Him sitting there in all his opulence; it was as if he rode the subway simply to mock them. To make their lives seem that much shabbier by comparison. Regardless of their feelings about him, the facts were clear enough in their minds. Here was a wealthy, successful man. Here was a man whose affairs were in order. Someone who had his life together. Someone who had his priorities straight. Someone who had carved out a nice, cozy corner of the world for himself. Someone who was going places. A man on the right track. Having finished his newspaper, he began to fold it back up. He folded it so neatly, so precisely, that they imagined it looked exactly the way it had when it had come off the press. It was crisp, perfect. Even the newspaper, it seemed, had become an extension of his success. Indeed, this was someone to be emulated. This was a man whose many triumphs could act as a guide. This was a man filled with important life lessons. This was a man who had made it. This was a man that they could aspire to be like. Whether they detested him or wanted to be him, or were simply taken aback by his obvious prosperity, they all saw the same thing: a man who was on top of the world. A man who had everything. So they didn't see it coming when he pulled a TEC-9 from his briefcase and started shooting. 03-17-2012
© 2012 RasputinReviews
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RasputinLeng, MAAbout*****I am the sole owner of all written content herein. Unless otherwise noted, I do no own any pictures displayed herein. All copyrights are the property of their respective owners.***** more..Writing
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