The End of the Line

The End of the Line By RUSSELL MARAÑO He felt someone's eyes on the back of his head, but he didn't turn around. He wanted to, but he couldn't. He was still too afraid. He turned toward the window hoping to see the reflection of the person watching him. The elevated train stopped suddenly, and the reflections in the window were gone, erased by the lights outside the train. The train started again, rushing through the neoned community that had sprouted up around the ?G stop. And then he saw himself, his reflection vivid against the dark background outside the moving train. He avoided the picture of himself, and searched the window for the eyes fixed on the back of his head. There were only a few passengers and most of them were asleep, sprawled across their seats. He couldn't locate the person watching him. "Howard Street!" The conductor shouted. "End of the line." Searching the window, he hardly heard the harsh voice of the conductor. The brakes on the train screeched, and he watched the handful of night travelers awake irritably from their uncomfortable slumbers. None of them could have been watching him. The train entered the light of the terminal and the reflections were gone. "Howard Street!" The conductor shouted again. "End of the line." He turned his head and watched with hesitant frightened peeps the stumbling, weary feet shuffling out of the doors and onto the bleak, dimly-lit platform. He 35 had to wait. He knew he had to wait. And instinctively he knew the eyes were still fixed on him. He tried again to turn around, but he couldn't. Why had the person waited? What did he want with him? He hadn't done anything wrong. "All-right!" The conductor flared, jostling an elderly negro. "Get up! Come on—end of the line!" "Whad da matter?" The negro asked, brushing his eyes with his forearm. "Wha happen?" "End of the line," the conductor said, his voice less challenging. The negro stumbled out the door, and he followed him. The negro wearied his way across the platform to a bench and went quickly to sleep. He walked slowly past the negro and through the exit doors. The eyes were still fixed on him. Someone was following him. He turned quickly hitting the exit door. It bumped against the man. He stepped back frightened. Instinctively he knew it was the man who had been watching him. "What have I done?" He blurted. "I haven't hurt anyone! I found work! I haven't broke parole! I-I don't understand ! I-I." "I've disturbed you," the tall man said, with calm assurance. "I must apologize. It was not my intention. I recognized the suit. And I must have stared at you too intently. I've forgotten how sensitive we are the first few days. Please forgive me." "You-you were in Joliet Prison?" "Yes. Do you need help? I can loan you some money." "Thank you," the short man said, feeling relief. "Thank you. I-I don't need no money. It's-It's kind 'a ya. Honest. Parole board got me a job doin' labor. Piece work. Start in the mornin' —eight o'clock. Can borrow money on the job. They loan a man money on his first day's work. A fellow told me they would." "How much money do you have?" "Seventeen cents," he said, shuffling his feet. "But I-I don't need no more 'cause I-I can ride back and forth on the "El" all night. Jobs off the the the-" He pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of his suit pocket. "—Sheridan Stop. They'll loan me money tomorrow. Honest. A fellow told me they would. I-I don't wan to put no touch on ya. I-I ain't no beggar. I-I thank ya though." "Here's a ten dollar bill," the man said, running his fingers through his long wavy hair. "I was in a similar predicament once, and a gentleman helped me. He was a stranger. The incident transformed my life. When your situation improves, pass...