[nas.auguiste]

In Transit
By Nastassia Auguiste

As kids Brian and Solomon both lived in foster homes. As adults the pair are two different entities. This fact made Solomon wonder what controls a person’s state of mind? What makes on person more aggressive, crueler or more heartless than another? His friend Brian was a heartless guy. Who believed that life made him such.
Mr. Hall stood in the living room of the loft style condo fishing around in the pocket of a pair of jeans for his keys. Solomon Hall, a free lance graphic design artist, was what is known as a bar hopping early bird. It was 9:45pm and he was already on his way to Transit lounge anticipating the music of a local band. Solomon stopped into the hallway of his condominium slamming the door behind him; His destination within walking distance of the hideously painted condo complex that he called home.
As he arrived at the bar a small group of happy hour quest were leaving. The booths to the right of the bar were empty and cluttered with dirty dishes. At the bar men and women in business attire could be heard singing alone to the blaring music, laughing and conversing. To the left of the bar the stage sat empty except for two large amps. Solomon sat at a booth closest to the door which held the fewest glasses. Sliding his phone open he began to navigate to the tools application. Solomon hated to be unorganized. He had the habit of making notes, memos and personal to do lists in his cell phone.
The bar filled rapidly as it got later. The crowd was of no interest to Solomon; and the noise was of no interest until the band showed up. He stretched his long legs across the length of the booth. A dark haired waitress started clearing away the plates and various glasses from the adjacent booths. She moved to Solomon’s booth and began to clear the glasses. As she reached for the two glasses in front of him Solomon raised his eyes from his cell and asked “What time does the band get here?” The waitress seemed over animated. “Well, they start around twelve.” she said tilting her head to one side in a way that Solomon had to try hard to avoid noticing. High stress makes him the kind of person who makes quick personal judgments of others. He ignored the urge to assume he was looking at a complete airhead.
Solomon has a certain brilliance about him. He is a constant flowing pool of ideas. Conversations with him are like brainstorming with a career coach. Brian Thomas lacked his clean cut delicacy but they shared a similar past. Brian discovered his love of drawing in high school. He used it as an escape route; finding his way into the cities he created. Drawn in sketch books the city scenes had architectural qualities and comic book artistry.
Brian leaned against the plexi-glass door of the train as it sped south. With his hands in his pockets he surveyed the other passengers. He was of medium height but carried his body in such a defiant manner that he was quite menacing. As a teenager he used his menacing appearance and boxing skills acquired in a gym to rid his self of the annoyance of thieves while living in various foster homes. After starting college Brian pick upped a few misdemeanors; they included vandalism and assault for which he was never charged.
The train pulled out of the downtown station. The next stop was his. He watched the blinking traffic lights from the elevated train and imagined it all drawn with permanent ink markers on a story board. The train jerked to a stop. Passenger rushed in and out. Brian, dressed in a black Zoo York t-shirt, gray slacks and sneakers, adjusted his fitted cap as he exited the train. He strode down the steep stairs and headed out into the dark street. He walked under the elevated train for two blocks until he reached the intersections opposite of Transit Lounge.
The walls of the bar were painted with bright waves near the sidewalk and exotic looking fish with extraordinarily large eyes that looked more like those of human beings than fish. The walls were also painted with female musicians playing guitars, trumpets and saxophones. The traffic lights blinked yellow and red at the intersection. Brian crossed. The intersection acted as a speed trap for the local police. In the distance Brian could see a bus. The display on the front of the bus should have said 8 Westchester but was mislabeled. He frowned to himself as his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Brian pulled it from his front left pocket and hit the ignore button. His phone had become an annoyance lately and Brian frankly didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He shook the hand of the bouncer and gave a quick fist pound to a skinny pale man who had tattoos covering his arms and neck before entering the bar.
Once inside he found himself in a dense crowd. How am I going to find this kid Brian thought? He scanned the room. Seated in a booth with his feet in the chair sat Solomon, tall and dark against the light blue of his button down shirt.



The lead singer of one of Miami’s most popular Latin inspired funk/soul jam bands sat on the edge of the stage wearing dark shades and her scarf wrapped around her slender shoulders. It was 12:45 am. Both Brian and Solomon had two beers and mingled with the crowd. The guitarist, the trumpet player, the 2nd guitar player and back up vocalist stood at the bar talking. The band played a few cover songs during their set that were well known. Bob Marley songs were quite popular with the young crowd. The reggae songs were mixed in with the songs unique to the band, some of which were in Spanish. It was common to find bands in the city of Miami that incorporated a heavy Hispanic influence in their music, considering the population of the city it wasn’t surprising.
The crowd danced to the music played by the Dj and crowded around the stage as the sound technician did a mic check.
“Check. One Two. Check One Two.” He said clearly into the microphone. “Dice? Turn me down a little.” He said.
The band was now 45 minutes late. The drummer hit the kick three times looking impatient. The bass player did his sound check and needed to be turned down. The musicians each took their spots on the stage. Solomon took a sip from his beer and began to talk to the DJ. Brian saw a girl he knew from his neighborhood in the crowd. He wanted to avoid her but was disappointed when she noticed him and wanted to dance. He gave Solomon a knowing look and Solomon stifled a smile. Brian was Mr. Anti-social.
Jordan Baron lived in a first floor apartment in a mostly Hispanic neighborhood near downtown Miami. She worked late nights in a hotel. She was introduced to Brian one night by her roommate who knew him in high school. They danced threw the first set together. She wanted to get to know him better but Brian wasn’t interested.
Brian chugged his third beer and threw his hands up to his favorite song. The lights in the bar drew shadows behind the band members. Jordan tried to dance closer to him. Brian didn’t want to just back away from her so he did the next best thing: called attention to her problem. He ran his hand over the track marks and bruises on her arm. She didn’t seem to notice what he was referring to but sensation of the raised veins and scabs on her inner arms nearly made Brian cringe.
Jordan was famous among their social circle for her addiction to heroin. As a teenager Brian lost friends to drug addiction and Aids. He knew first hand that drug addicts were trouble, primarily to themselves. The first set ended to a roar of whistling and applause.
Solomon had slipped out the side door with the sound technician and was sharing a cigarette with him. Brian left Jordan alone in the crowd and went to find his “boy.”
“You two faggots are so cheap.” Brian said to them.
Solomon wanted to tell Brian to F off but decided against. The sight of two grown men sharing a cigarette was in fact laughable. Brian began to search around his back pockets for his pack of Camels. Transit was alive with activity and people.
“What’s up?” the sound tech said as Brian passed him a fresh cigarette
“I’m Dice. “ Dice was one of the founding members of the band. He was an MC that now took care of the more technical aspects of the performances.
“Brian.” He said shaking the stranger’s hand.
“How do you know my boy here?” Brian asked as he passed Solomon a fresh cigarette.
“He does the t-shirt design and album covers for the band. “ He said
Solomon shrugged. His eyes were red and heavy lidded. In his mind he had the image of his friend, Brian, fair with dark hair, eyes blue as the sky, always ready for a fight. He thought about the fight for Brian’s life. He thought about all Brian’s troubles with the police and all the people he lost to jail, suicide and drug addiction. Jordan wasn’t the right girl for him. She came with too much baggage. That would only take Brian down a negative path. Make him a statistic; A lost man. The music blared on the patio of Transit Lounge. Outside the gate a number eight bus went by and stirred up the trash on the curb.
Solomon and Brian decided to skip the second set. The sound technician went back to his post next to the DJ. Jordan joined Solomon and Brian as they left the bar. Solomon could feel the tension between the two. As they made their way around the bar Solomon couldn’t help but notice the mural outside of Transit. He walked a few feet behind Brian and Jordan as the three of them went down to Mary Brickell Village. He watched Jordan’s heels as she stumbled down the sidewalk. He wondered why Brian wouldn’t hold the girls elbow as they walked. The traffic was traveling in the same direction as the trio walked.
Brian heard a honk and turned back. The lights of the on coming cars blinded him and he could see nothing but the light blue of Solomon’s shirt. The next moment felt like an eternity moving in slow motion. The crash of the cars, scream of a women coming from a near by convertible and the blood; blood everywhere all over the street, the anguished expression on Solomon’s face; a combination of shock and unimaginable pain. Brian turned towards Jordon but she was gone.
Had she stumble into the street? Had the car some how jumped the curb? The screech of tires came from the road. Brian’s face felt as if it were on fire. Jordan had infact stumble into the street. She didn’t see the convertible coming. Never knew what was coming. The convertible tossed her tiny body into the air. The sound of her body bouncing off the pavement would forever exist in Solomon’s memory, playing over and over in his mind. The number eight dade county bus that ran over Jordan Barons body stopped under the blinking red light of the intersection about fifty feet away. The driver got out and dialed 911 from his cell phone. It was 3:45 am and the second set had just begun at Transit Lounge. [/size]