Welcome to the city

It wasn’t his shabby look that made me take notice. Neither was it his peculiar voice. If it was just one of these things, he might have soon faded back into the blur of people I was passing by on my tram ride to the convention.

What made me take interest was that when the tram stopped, he didn’t throw his still-lit cigarette away like everyone else. Instead, he saved it for later, by putting it into his jacket. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. Since, well, I guess you’ll probably risk ruining your jacket if you do that. But what did I know? Perhaps this guy could teach me something new. Something of use.

He and another guy sat down close enough to listen in on their conversation. They seemed to know each other, although Mr. Cigarette mostly steered the conversation.

“50?! You got 50?!”, he exclaimed, leaning over to check his friend’s smartphone screen. “I got 20 once, but 50? Shit!”

His friend seemed unfazed. Whatever numbers they were talking about, it seemed to be a rather average success for him.

“You son of a bitch! You asshole! 50!!”, would Mr. Cigarette rant on. “Show me again!” Giggling uncontrollably, he moved a bit closer. “50! Motherfucking bitch of a lucker!”

His friend finally started to seem a bit annoyed by Mr. Cigarette. With his eyes darting around to discover possible escape routes, I lowered my own gaze. If I was to make use of the material unfolding right before my eyes, I wanted them to feel undisturbed. Let the story unfold without interfering. Naturally.

Mr. Cigarette continued his blabbering about numbers, sprinkling it with swear words ever so often. This promised to be good, honest material, slowly but steadily approaching some climax. Still purposefully averting my eyes, I listened intently, not wanting to miss out on the best, most intense parts.

I did not think of the emergency brake in time. But in my defense, I was desperately trying to somehow save a man’s life that had just been stabbed by a stranger.

The last I saw of Mr. Cigarette as the tram was moving again was his hand, reaching in his pocket for that smoldering stump, and calmly reigniting it, before discreetly walking away.

Strangely enough, when the police asked me mere minutes later, I couldn’t describe Mr. Cigarette in any detail. How bad a writer was I?

It wasn’t until much later that I realized what I had actually done in that situation, even while my brain kept telling me I had just been doing my research job as a writer: I was trying not to get noticed. Please, let it not be me he sits next to.

I don’t know the excuses all the other people in the tram had come up with. But I do know that any of us probably could have prevented a crime. No one dared, though.

Welcome to the city. Where many see, but few ever do.

Would you?