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In the cab back to Grand Central Terminal Ben talked
incessantly about the show, remembering every detail,
but on the train home the day finally took its toll.
Curled up in his father's lap he fell asleep almost
instantly not to wake until the following day. Like
his mother he did everything with commitment.
A shabby man, perhaps in his fifties, swayed onto the
train and bumped James' shoulder as he passed. "I'm
very sorry sir," he said, with evident sincerity.
Then, as if to explain his mildly drunken state he elaborated.
"I graduated from the University of South East
Asia, if you understand me."
Before James could answer, the man lowered himself
into the seat behind them, by the sound of it falling
the last foot or so. Without pause he struck up a conversation
with the poor soul next to him.
"I like to cook, y'know. Do you cook?"
A man's voice answered. "Yeah, I cook. I cook
Italian."
"Italian? Just Italian."
"Italian," answered his unseen neighbor.
The veteran thought about this. He might not have fully
drowned his sorrows this evening, but James had an idea
they were coughing and spluttering for air. "What
spices do you use for Italian?"
"What spices?"
"Yeah. What spices do you use?"
"I use all kind of spices."
"All kind? What kind? Do you use new spices or
old spices?"
"All kind of spices."
The veteran considered this datum. "You use garlic?"
he asked, finally.
"Sure I use garlic." The second man sounded
almost as relaxed as the first.
"That's an old spice."
"Yeah?"
"Sure, the Romans used garlic. Garlic and fennel."
"Fennel, huh. I don't use fennel."
"You use basil? That's a new spice. The Romans
didn't have that."
"I use basil sometimes."
"I use basil too."
"My brother likes them Indian spices. Cumin and
all that stuff."
This new information took a long time to digest. "They're
real old," the veteran finally decided.
James often wished he had a tape recorder on the train.
The quality of this overheard dialogue was remarkable.
No one could invent conversations as surreal as this,
meaningless yet somehow deeply insightful. These people
around him had rich, complex lives. Though they were
not the same as James' life they were just as important,
full of joy and sorrow, triumph and disaster, imposters
both.
He had learned that the words he overheard were truly
windows into alternate realities. People do not share
a world, they live in small worlds of their own devising
separated by boundaries that are hard to cross. Most
of the trouble in the world came from that one fact,
as did James' solitary years of unhappiness in London.
Beside him Debbie leaned over to rest her head on his
shoulder. Holding his son and feeling the warmth from
his wife down his arm he felt deeply contented, as if
he knew that things would somehow work out.
"We shouldn't have spent all this money tonight,"
Debbie told him, keeping her voice to a whisper to let
Ben sleep. "Until you get a job we have to count
every penny."
When the towers fell her workload fell too, dramatically,
and she knew as well as he that many of their friends
lived on unemployment. The wait might be long.
"Something will come along," he promised.
"Wish I had your confidence," she said sleepily.
"I did get a kind of offer today," he said,
trying to sound casual.
"Wassat?" She gave a long deep yawn.
He looked down at her and saw that her eyes were closed.
"I'll tell you tomorrow."
She was almost asleep and he knew that she might not
remember what he had told her. He could still abandon
Sue and her detective agency and look for work in Connecticut.
He still had that option. Somehow he didn't think he
would take it, though. He stretched out his legs and
closed his eyes. It was his decision, and he would make
it when he was feeling more alert. Until then he would
doze on the train and then drive his wife and child
back to their small comfortable apartment and fall happily
into their comfortable beds.
"Paprika?" said an indignant voice behind
him. "Lemme tell you about paprika."
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