The accounts of Allister's battles, the wins and the losses, are punctuated with many a foe. But, Allister could think of few who rang as potent as the Man on the Trolley. His title, is in its simplicity, lacked a name. And that is because Allister was never officially introduced, knew him only for his vile manner and his preferred mode of transportation.
Fate perhaps boarded the trolley with Allister that day. It was a brisk day, as certain fateful days tend to be. Allister waited at the stop, newspaper in hand. When the trolley pulled alongside, Allister stepped aboard with a happy smirk, glad to be aboard. There was a unification that came, a warmth that nature poured from all aboard, whence one boarded public transit. Allister leant back against the pole of the handrail and soaked in it. It was not always like this, to be sure. There were days of odd smells and cold thoughts. But, not today. Not until that Man boarded.
His shuffle was one of deliberate anger. His mustache pointed too carefully with tension. His eyes were beady, the pupils tiny and dark and sinking into his large absorbing pools of white. His tense shoulders seemed to take note from the whites of his eyes as they pulled high with apparent intent to swallow his head. And his scarf looked to be pulled too tight around what could be seen of his neck. Looking back, Allister often theorized that whomever taught this man such an erroneous method was to blame for his wretched demeanor, that in their failure to teach properly the snug but loose feeling a scarf they had inadvertently narrowed the flow of oxygen and blood to the brain and left it a cold and bitter muscle. But, in the end, one must make effort to be cruel. And the Man on the Trolley did so.
The Man on the Trolley stepped aboard, felt the warmth, saw Allister leaning against the pole of the handrail, saw Allister's sweet smile, and in one foul line, drained the trolley of all its good intentions. He looked at Allister through the squint of his beady eyes and said in a tone low and evil, "It is a hand handrail, you know?" This was said along with a shove as if there was not enough room (which there was) and as if Allister hid some complex and sinister plan to prevent all from holding onto the rail so that at each stop the trolley would throw passengers to the ground (which he did not).
When Allister turned to the man, looked down upon him (for he was at least a whole head shorter than Allister), he met with the Man’s daggery pupils-which was unnecessary for the Man on the Trolley's voice was just as daggery. Allister rarely picked fights, but few could fault him if his eyes turned daggery themselves and if, instead of answering the Man on the Trolley, Allister simply stood locked in a knife fight of pupils until the Man on the Trolley thrust his daggery glance into the ground, surrendering and leaving Allister poisoned with cold tension.
It was for this reason that the Man on the Trolley ranked so high in Allister's list of foes. To carry anger in you and to throw it at those who feel the sun is a wretched practice, one that is hard to forgive. For they do not just destroy moods, they destroy entire days.
Fate perhaps boarded the trolley with Allister that day. It was a brisk day, as certain fateful days tend to be. Allister waited at the stop, newspaper in hand. When the trolley pulled alongside, Allister stepped aboard with a happy smirk, glad to be aboard. There was a unification that came, a warmth that nature poured from all aboard, whence one boarded public transit. Allister leant back against the pole of the handrail and soaked in it. It was not always like this, to be sure. There were days of odd smells and cold thoughts. But, not today. Not until that Man boarded.
His shuffle was one of deliberate anger. His mustache pointed too carefully with tension. His eyes were beady, the pupils tiny and dark and sinking into his large absorbing pools of white. His tense shoulders seemed to take note from the whites of his eyes as they pulled high with apparent intent to swallow his head. And his scarf looked to be pulled too tight around what could be seen of his neck. Looking back, Allister often theorized that whomever taught this man such an erroneous method was to blame for his wretched demeanor, that in their failure to teach properly the snug but loose feeling a scarf they had inadvertently narrowed the flow of oxygen and blood to the brain and left it a cold and bitter muscle. But, in the end, one must make effort to be cruel. And the Man on the Trolley did so.
The Man on the Trolley stepped aboard, felt the warmth, saw Allister leaning against the pole of the handrail, saw Allister's sweet smile, and in one foul line, drained the trolley of all its good intentions. He looked at Allister through the squint of his beady eyes and said in a tone low and evil, "It is a hand handrail, you know?" This was said along with a shove as if there was not enough room (which there was) and as if Allister hid some complex and sinister plan to prevent all from holding onto the rail so that at each stop the trolley would throw passengers to the ground (which he did not).
When Allister turned to the man, looked down upon him (for he was at least a whole head shorter than Allister), he met with the Man’s daggery pupils-which was unnecessary for the Man on the Trolley's voice was just as daggery. Allister rarely picked fights, but few could fault him if his eyes turned daggery themselves and if, instead of answering the Man on the Trolley, Allister simply stood locked in a knife fight of pupils until the Man on the Trolley thrust his daggery glance into the ground, surrendering and leaving Allister poisoned with cold tension.
It was for this reason that the Man on the Trolley ranked so high in Allister's list of foes. To carry anger in you and to throw it at those who feel the sun is a wretched practice, one that is hard to forgive. For they do not just destroy moods, they destroy entire days.
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