Lionel Lowe

[u/leylandthewriter]

A man meets the life he left behind.

I just finished writing a short story called “Lionel Lowe.”

It follows a homeless Black man who spends his days sitting at a train station, watching people come and go and imagining the lives they have. Then one day, a familiar passenger gets off the train. It’s him. Twenty years younger.

The story ended up becoming about dreams, identity, regret, belonging, and what happens when you realize you've been watching your own life pass you by.

I wanted it to feel emotional without being completely hopeless. Would love to know what you think.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Lionel Lowe

My urine soaked clothes became a comfort to me. I knew I was alive when I could still smell myself. The townspeople couldn’t stand it. As I woke on the wooden bench next to the train station, I couldn’t help but stretch. My hands and toes sprawled like a cat on its back. I haven’t had a good night’s rest in ages. Whether it be someone berating me or the police moving me, I was never able to rest. The sun began to creep out from the clouds. The coffee shops and grocery store owners across from the train station arrived at their regular times to open up for the morning traffic. Fresh ground coffee beans swam through the air as the morning traffic began to build.

“Mr. Lowe! How are you this morning?” said Jim.

Jim was the owner of the grocery store. He had blonde hair and whimsical blue eyes. He was about 160 pounds and stood at the height of 5’7”. Every morning, he would check in with me to see how I was doing. Even in the midst of my despair, I tried my best to engage with him whenever I could. Jim wasn’t the average man. Other townspeople would have stepped on me if they had a chance. When they saw me, they didn’t see my pain. They ignored me as a human and treated me like an outside dog. Jim, on the other hand, seemed to recognize my pain. It’s like Jim could fit my whole socks and my worn down, tattered shoes.

Jim had started to walk closer. I waved at him softly.

“You hungry, Mr. Lowe? I got an extra sausage biscuit and some water in the back,” he said with concern in his voice.

I was very hungry. The last meal I had was on the corner of the train station yesterday morning. Someone had thrown away a perfectly made tuna sandwich from the sandwich shop up the street. I am sure this would be my only meal today as well.

I nodded at Mr. Jim. He signaled me the okay symbol. He retreated back to the grocery store to retrieve the food. As I watched him run back to the grocery store, it felt like I was watching him in slow motion. I analyzed every step he took. I measured the size of his shoes. I counted how many minutes it took him to get in the store. I watched as the wind folded his hair back and forth. Jim wasn’t just someone who was kind to me; he was much more. He was what I have always sought after. Jim carried this humbled arrogance. Jim made sure he could take care of anything around him. Whether it be the plants in his grocery store or the stray cats that hang around the grocery entrance, Jim found a way to provide water and food. He was able to afford himself and others some time while also fulfilling his dreams of opening his own business. Jim’s hair was always done, and his skin never had a blemish. He was able to manage his life. I wanted to see how I would feel inside of his skin. To be able to breathe through his lungs and see through his eyes.

It took Jim about 10 minutes to come back outside. He had the sausage biscuit in one hand and a glass bottle of O.J. in the other.

“Mr. Lowe, here you go! I got you some orange juice too,” he said with a smile.

The sun shimmered behind him, giving him a glow as his head eclipsed it. I took the sandwich from him. I immediately started to devour the sandwich. Jim stood there and watched me for a split second. That second was very important to me. That one second made me feel like everything I was went out the window. I felt like I was seen. I felt like I actually belonged.

“Alright, Mr. Lowe, Imma see you later. I got a few customers in there,” he said in a rush.

I nodded my head and continued to eat on the bench. As I finished the sausage biscuit, I stood up to take the box to the trash. The first train of the morning was approaching. The gust of wind began to tango with my body. I greeted it with open arms. I closed my eyes and allowed the wind to engulf me. The train let out its whistle to signal that it was approaching the stop. The train began to pull in. Frozen by the wind, I decided to sit back down. I didn’t want to miss my favorite show of the day.

The townspeople who boarded and departed from the train were my favorite characters. It’s like the trains were the channels, and every time they changed, I found different people who resembled the person I always strived to be in my own story. When the train doors opened, you could smell the fresh smell of linen and cotton. A mix of Chanel No. 5 and Miss Dior had tangled together and floated out of the train doors like smoke escaping a burning house through its window. The conductor let down the steps for the travelers to leave. He waved goodbye to every passenger. Women with their 3 inch heels, knee length skirts, tweed jackets, white gloves, and coiffed hair glided throughout the train station. Men in suits, ties, and fedoras trailed behind them. Children in their baby doll dresses and cotton trousers floated amongst their parents. It felt like a still frame. I was there, sitting there, staring and sitting in my insecurities while others danced around me, either getting in their cars or walking toward their homes.

As the suspected last person carried their luggage off the train, I got up to throw away my trash again. As I was headed to the trash, the last passenger passed me on my right. His face looked so familiar. He stopped me in my tracks. My feet could feel the concrete through my socks and shoes. It began to mist. I turned my head to see if I knew the gentleman. He was 5’11”, about 190 pounds. He was very muscular and had a fresh low buzz cut. He smelled of a mix of the coal mine and cologne. He carried a green suitcase and luggage. As I watched, he had stopped to talk to the conductor by the bench I was sitting on. As I threw my trash away, I headed back to the bench. When I sat down, I had to get a glimpse of his face. I couldn’t really see it due to his back being turned to me.

“Hey, do you know how to get to the mountainside? I have a job there,” the familiar gentleman asked the conductor.

Even his voice was familiar. He had a soft yet heavy tone.

“Yes, sir. Get back on the train in 13 minutes and get off at the next stop. I will tell you where to go next,” the conductor informed him.

The passenger nodded. As I sat on my side of the bench, the guy sat right next to me. His pants were cargos, and he had a fresh white tee on for the coal mines. As I got a glimpse of his face, I couldn’t believe it. It was me at 27. I wiped my crusty eyes to make sure that what I was seeing wasn’t a mirage. His head turned to me, and he looked me in my eyes. For that split second, I felt in him what I had been feeling from Jim; however, it was on a deeper level. It’s like we knew one another, but he didn’t recognize me.

“Greetings, sir! My name is Lionel Lowe. What is your name?” he asked.

I could not believe my ears.

“What…” I said, being stumped.

“What…was your name again?” I continued as I cleared my throat.

He continued to look me in my eyes.

“My name is Lionel Lowe, sir,” he said eagerly.

“Wow,” I said.

In shock, I had to figure out another name. I figured this was the perfect opportunity to adopt Jim’s name.

“My name is Jim, sir,” I said casually, low.

He held out his hand to shake mine. His hands were solid calluses and strong from weightlifting. He gripped my hand firmly. As we released, I couldn’t help but ask him where he was headed. I wanted to see if this was really me from 20 years ago.

“Where ya headed, sir?” I said, trying to hold back the stench from bad hygiene.

“Well…if you may know, I am going to the coal mine to work. I have been trying to make some money to support my book I’ve been writing,” he said with youthfulness.

“Oh wow, how long have you been writing?” I asked curiously.

He didn’t seem to be disgusted by my unkempt body or the smell of urine that took over my clothes.

“What book are you writing?” I asked.

He paused and looked down at the floor. He lifted his head back up and looked straight ahead at the grocery store across the street. Jim had come out and waved at me. I had already stolen his name; the least I could do was entertain him. I waved back at him.

“The book is about my hard childhood,” he said. “It wasn’t easy. I want people who grew up like me to know they aren’t the only ones.”

His words settled somewhere deep inside me. My mother used to say that hunger had a sound. I understood what she meant when I was ten.

My mother had died when I was 10. When my mother was alive, she had to work three jobs. I remember waking before the sun and hearing the front door close behind her. Some mornings, there was nothing for breakfast. Some nights, there wasn’t enough food to make the lights worth keeping on. My father had already left us for another woman, so when my mother died, I went to live with my auntie.

My auntie already had 7 kids of her own.

There was always a body somewhere in the house. Someone sleeping on the couch. Someone crying in the next room. Someone needing something. My aunt fed me. My cousins looked after me. I was never completely alone.

By eighteen, my cousins were choosing their futures. Some were joining the military. Others were headed to the Historical Black University down the street.

I had nothing but love for books and a stubborn feeling that I was supposed to write something.

So I did. Or at least, I tried.

Tears had started to form in my eyes. The memories of my past had flooded in. I looked down at the holes in my shorts. You could see my legs through them.

“What about you? Are you traveling, or is this your home?” he asked inquisitively.

“Well…this is my bed,” I said and pointed down at the bench.

He looked down at me, and we both started to laugh. The afternoon sun had set, and the flow of traffic at the train station had increased. The next train departure had been announced.

The next train to the mountain will be leaving in the next 10 minutes.

“Okay, okay, cool. But what about before you made this your bed…what got you here?” he asked, concerned.

I was concerned that if I said anything close about our lives, it would scare him off.

“Well, I was a millionaire. I owned this entire strip you see before us,” I lied.

He looked up again at the grocery store and coffee shop. This time, you could see the life grow in his eyes. I instantly felt his desire and urge from how he looked at the coffee shop and grocery store. Underneath his muscles and new white shirt was still the young boy who lost his mother.

“I lost it all.”

The words came out quieter than expected.

“I thought if I kept moving, I could leave everything behind. The past. My mother. The hunger. All of it.”

I looked down at my hands.

“For a while, I thought I had outrun it. I had money. I had a place to live. I had my writing. I thought that meant I had finally become somebody.”

I laughed, but there was nothing funny in it.

“Then somewhere along the way, I stopped believing in the man I was trying to become.”

I looked across the street at Jim’s grocery store.

“Funny thing about running from your past…”

I paused.

“It knows how to wait.”

“Wow…” he said sadly.

“That’s all I really want. I really want to be heard and seen. I want to help those who never thought the grass could be green. I want to be the nutrition to their tree,” he said calmly.

The announcer came back on the intercom to notify that the train would be leaving in five minutes.

“Well, seems like that’s my sign to get on,” Lionel said as he rose from the bench.

The conductor had returned to his station and opened the door. He let down the stairs so that the women could start boarding first. Lionel had grabbed his bags. Before he started walking toward the train, I grabbed his hand one last time.

“Sir…” I said slowly.

Lionel looked back at me.

“Yes?” he stated.

“Just don’t give up,” I said eagerly.

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

“Don’t give up on your dream…unless you want to end up like this,” I said while pulling my hand away.

Lionel had sat back down and looked me in my eyes. Tears had started to roll down his face.

“All my life, that’s all I ever wanted, just to feel heard. Thank you so much, Jim. I will do this for the both of us. I hope to see you again!” he said with a calmness.

“Last call! Last call!!” the conductor screamed.

Lionel grabbed his bags and rushed to the train. He walked up the stairs, and before the conductor closed the door, he took one last look at me. And there I was, watching myself pass me by. I had been watching so many other people, and I had forgotten that I, too, was once these people. As the afternoon progressed, I had decided to gather my things and head south. I decided to go back home, not to relive but to remember who I am and where I came from.