The Old Man and the Train Station

There is a chill in the air as people slowly and, at times, awkwardly attempt to get comfortable in the train station's bucket seats. A local radio station plays music in the background, though people’s attention to it is like one who must have white noise to sleep. The automatic door welcomes another person inside along with a winter blast from outside.   

Slowly, an old man waddles into the station. His wispy hair, the color of snow. Time has left its mark with the wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. The weight of life has caused him to hunch over. He makes his way up to the ticket counter. Standing there, he peers out from under bushy eyebrows, looking through the glass at the counter where at one time he might have purchased tickets regularly to get to important meetings, but now resigned to only the memories. After some time, he turns and makes his way across to the other side of the station, eventually stopping in front of the vending machines. Slowly, he checks to see if there is any forgotten change in the return. With no luck, he turns and slowly walks through the rows of seats before gingerly dropping his grizzled body into one of them. 

As he sits there, people come through the doors leading from the tracks. He watches them come and go. Young lovers meet each other and embrace. The big circular clock on the wall is a silent casted extra. It’s hands slow but timely. Families are reunited. Lone individuals rush through, concentrated on the rat race that drives them, and there he sits.

An older woman sits down near him, and he asks her where she is coming from and going to. After answering, she then reciprocates the question. He replies in a rough, gravelly voice that he lives nearby. He explains that he comes every night to watch the people coming and going.  

What has he seen? Who has walked past him? Do they see or look through him like he is not even there? The clock ticks, reminding me that it is my turn. I stand up, walk past the old man, our eyes briefly interlocking, and then I step outside and onto the train.

And there he sits.

'He's a real nowhere man sitting in his nowhere land making all his nowhere plans for nobody.'- The Beatles