The Cynic In Love

Through the ramshackle trailers that littered the dumpsite on the outskirts of Havenburgh, the bitter wind carried the scent of decay every waking day of my stagnant life. Every time I went outside, the smell of rotten food was piercing through my nostrils. The only thing that motivates me to stay in this ghetto is the fact that no one is there to save me but myself. Even loved ones can hurt and disappoint. Especially loved ones.

My trailer, if you could even call it that, stood between the town’s border and the baseline of the hill. The floor squeaked as I stepped around, as with the door. The paint chipped, a wonderful contrast to the wide and colorful world outside these barren grounds that I so desperately wanted to explore. I slid into the exhausted couch, the springs growling in protest. It folded under my weight. My life was always in shadow, reflected by the cobbled dining table, a recycled plank of wood perched precariously on two mismatched boxes, mingling with the faint aroma of cheap instant noodles that had become my staple diet.

I glanced around at the bare furniture, which included an old dresser with stuck drawers. Only to make it a stall for my odd collection. I really don’t remember what’s in it since all my clothes are hiding in package boxes underneath my bed. On top is a lopsided bookcase filled with travel magazines from previous years that I had been carrying around since I moved away and tattered books that had been checked out from the town library. Only a single window by the sink provides a narrow view of the lonely scene outside. The tiny living area that also served as a kitchenette opened directly onto the hallway, barely allowing room for two steps. The small space felt like a hug closing in on me.

I ran my fingers through my tangled hair in frustration, muttering to myself, “This place seems to shrink by the day,” while reaching out to retrieve my worn-out boots trapped under the couch with the dirt crunched beneath them. My head bumped into the table and startled by the door creaking, I cursed out loud.

“Language!” Becka’s raspy voice broke through my thoughts as she emerged from her run-down trailer next door. As if cursed words aren’t her first language. “Another day in paradise, eh, Tarver?”

Rebekah Jones, the proclaimed owner of the park, was a middle-aged woman with tattoos that adorned her arms. She had a no-nonsense attitude that matched her fiery red hair, and our conversations were always laced with a hint of mutual understanding tempered with cautious respect.

“Paradise lost, more like it,” I muttered, forcing a smirk as I moved up to hand her the collection I had last night.

Becka stepped inside, her boots leaving dusty footprints on the damaged floor. She counted the money I collected from the rent and glanced at the pile of wrinkled bills on my table. “Just noticed you only managed to collect from one of the tenants this month. Quite a feat, considering.”

I bristled slightly at the implication behind her words, the reminder that my trailer was the smallest, rent-free only because of our arrangement. “I’ve been busy, Becka. You know how it is at the train station, dealing with all sorts of… people.”

I have the time, honestly. Every day the tenants are much more difficult than the passengers at the station. It’s impossible to collect bills from them as they are so entitled. I can’t make that an excuse for Becka when she made it clear to me about it in the first place.

Becka’s smirk widened, her tone laced with playful sarcasm. “Oh, I know, I know. But you also know the deal, young lady. If you can’t collect enough to cover your share, well...”

I finished her sentence in my mind, the unspoken threat hanging between us. If I couldn’t pull my weight in rent collection, Becka would expect me to make up for it in other ways. And ‘other ways’ usually translated to dipping into my nonexistent savings or taking on extra odd jobs I barely had time for.

“I’ll make sure to step up my game, Becka,” I replied, forcing a nonchalant tone that didn’t quite mask my frustration. “Just give me some time.”

Becka’s smirk softened into a sympathetic smile, her hand resting on my shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. “You know I appreciate everything you do around here, Tarver, but we’ve all got bills to pay.”

I nodded, plastering on a grateful smile. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of her words pressing down on me. In this small-town life, even the smallest trailer came with its price to pay.

My gaze landed on a newspaper clipping pinned to the wall—a relic of my lingering anger and resentment, towards the man who claimed to be my father.

“Carlos Ramirez, the visionary businessman,” jeered the headline showcasing a smug photo of a man I could barely recognize anymore. The article glorified his accomplishments and wealth while disregarding the family he had abandoned.

“I still keep wondering why you put up in this small town,” she said while checking out the newspaper article and pushing a new pin to Carlos’ photo like a voodoo. “You have quite a life back there.”

My hands tightened into fists as a surge of bitterness crept up my throat like bile.

“You mean, dysfunctional?” I blurted out. Not to mention the everyday emotional abuse and absence. “On paper, sure. You’ve been there, you should have known.”

She grinned at me with a nostalgic thought as she headed back to her trailer. Just as she was at the door, she asked, “By the way, we need to free up 4 trailers next week for the new tenants. If you can’t collect past dues, then I’m sure it’s easy for you to do that instead. Any troublemakers last night?”

I shrugged, leaning back on my couch. “Same old, same old. Wyatt was blasting his music again, but I managed to get him to turn it down after the third complaint. Well, I threatened him to ruin his art.

Becka nodded, “That Wacalski never learns, does he?” She likes to call everyone by their last name.

“I also plan to collect his 3 months past-due bills using his graffiti art obsession,” I added.

“Well, keep an eye out. We don’t need any more drama around here.”

The drama. How can we get away from it? From the scandalous affairs whisper to the petty squabbles everywhere. There was always something brewing beneath the surface that I could not get away from.

As the first train of the day rumbled into the station, its whistle piercing the morning air, I pushed aside those thoughts. For myself and the other cynics in Havenburgh, it was just another day of dying dreams and counting down the minutes till our next escape. I rushed out to the train station before the clock struck 7. I cannot afford to be late since my paycheck is barely sufficient. The station is a 10-minute walk away from the trailer park if you go the route by the hill on foot.

The train station greeted me with its usual cacophony of announcements and hurried footsteps. I braced myself for the raid of complaints and demands from the passengers and settled in behind the ticket counter. It’s more likely a prison booth than just a ticket counter to me. The walls are transparent from both sides, and cold metal bars run at the counter for receiving and stamping tickets in automation.

The morning rush began, a parade of disgruntled faces and impatient sighs.

“Ticket, please,” I droned, my voice holding a faint undertone of sarcasm that only the keen could pick up on.

Mrs. Berry, the resident complainer, was among the first to grace me with her presence. I greeted her with a forced cheer, “Good morning, Mrs. Berry,” already expecting complaints about how high the price was again. I think I already memorized her words.

“Morning, dear,” she replied, her tone already dripping with irritation. “Can you believe they raised the ticket prices again? It’s daylight robbery!”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, opting for a compassionate nod instead. “I know, it’s a shame. But what can we do, right?”

Every single day, muttering under her breath, Mrs. Berry sighed as she headed to the train.

“Next,” I called out.

“Where to?”

“Ugh, I really hate traveling. It’s exhausting!” she groaned in discreet arrogance, ignoring my questions and dropping the ticket at the counter. It’s for me to figure out where it is. My mind drifted to my dreams, far beyond the confines of this small town as I handed back the stamped ticket. I can’t be as weary as her if I’m constantly traveling, I thought.

The entire day seemed incredibly drawn out and repetitive, with every interaction and request seeming the same. Each tick of the wall clock appeared to be mocking me and letting me know how much time I had wasted being caught in this never-ending cycle.

“I hope this train isn’t too crowded,” another muttered as if I could magically make space appear in the packed carriages.

“It’s always late,” one passenger grumbled to another as if I had any control over the train schedule.

Just as I finished processing an elderly woman’s ticket, a man approached the counter, his eyes darting around as if he were lost. He was tall and lean, with an air of casual confidence that seemed out of place in this small town.

“Can I ask you a question?” he began, his voice tentative.

I raised an eyebrow, my snarky demeanor slipping through the cracks. “That depends. Is it a question or a complaint?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by my response but quickly recomposed himself. Perhaps he thinks that I’m snarky to be working here. He clears his throat and continues, “I think I might’ve boarded the wrong train. I’m trying to get to Havenburgh. Is there any way to change my ticket?”

I raised an eyebrow, my cynicism piqued by his apparent ignorance. “Let me see your ticket,” I said, extending my hand. He handed it over, and sure enough, he was on the wrong train, heading in the opposite direction. I’m fighting the urge to sigh dramatically.

“Unfortunately, this ticket is as stubborn as a mule. You need to head back the way you came and catch the next train to Havenburgh,” I explained, handing the ticket back to him. “Next one’s in an hour.”

He sighed, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Great. Just my luck.”

Before I could respond, a commotion erupted near the entrance. A burly man with a red face and a booming voice was making a scene, waving a crumpled ticket in the air. “This is ridiculous! I paid good money for this ticket, and now I can’t get through?”

I groaned inwardly, preparing myself for another showdown. Just as I stepped forward to handle the situation, the man from before stepped forward without hesitation, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the escalating tension.

“Hey, buddy,” he called out, walking up to the furious passenger. He asked in a calmer voice, “What seems to be the problem here?” attempting to diffuse the situation.

“Who are you?” The man turned his attention to the newcomer.

“A concerned passenger, you are causing a scene. It’s very inconvenient for everyone.”

“This blasted ticket got denied, and I need to get on that train!” he exclaimed, his frustration evident.

“Luckily, Benny,” he said as he took a step closer with an arm over him as if they were already buddies. He easily knew the man’s name with keen eyes and fast thinking. “You don’t need to worry about it. How about I give you my ticket, and we’ll sort out the details later?” he suggested, his tone sensitive yet firm.

I watched the conversation unfold with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. Surprisingly, the man calmed down at the offer. It only took a brief exchange of words and a transaction, peace was restored, at least for that man since he made his way toward the correct platform, grumbling under his breath.

“Thanks for your help back there,” I said, acknowledging his assistance. I felt my heart expand with the way he handled the angry passenger. He was born with a calm confidence that spoke volumes, a hidden skill to soothe even the maddest situation.

“And sorry about the snarky response earlier,” I added.

He smiled with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “No problem at all. I guess, I don’t have to circle back to catch the next train.”

As the train approached, a sudden thought flickered in the back of my mind. “You know, there’s a shortcut to Havenburgh from here. It’s not too far, just a bit of a trekking walk through the woods,” I mentioned a spontaneous impulse guiding my words.

The stranger’s eyes lit up with curiosity and adventure. “Sounds like an adventure,” he said with a playful grin.

“You’re not a psycho or anything, are you?”

“I should be the one asking that!”