Subway Story

The subway platform is already crowded by the time I shuffle in. There's a guy by the door playing what sounds like "Radar Love" on the harmonica. I drop the 62 cents change from my lunch into his dixie cup. I've been standing by the second pillar from the entrance for a few moments, when my train arrives and I climb aboard. After riding the subway for a few weeks it starts to become like a college class. There are no assigned seats, but you gravitate towards the same car each day. I notice a couple of the other regulars as soon as I step in. The guy with the sandwich is sitting in his usual spot by the door. Today it's filled with some kind of italian meats and the smell has already filled up the car. The woman who knits is sitting in the front corner and today she's using rather hideous brown and orange thread. The space around her is less tightly packed than the rest of the car as no one wants to get poked. Some days I wish I had the luxury of a bubble. Knit one, pearl two I count in my head as I find an empty enough spot to stand and slip my right hand into the red pleather strap. The doors closed and the train shrugs out of the station. It takes me about thirty seconds to wish I hadn't left my i-pod at home. The new Wilco album I downloaded last night would be a welcome replacement for the sound of shaking, vibrating metal and plastic and squealing brakes that signals our arrival at the next stop.

Only three people leave our car and maybe ten or fifteen pile on. There's a short, sweaty asian kid in a Dominique Wilkins throwback jersey, a nebbish looking woman with cat-eye glasses, and a tallish fellow wearing a seersucker suit and a bowtie. 'Nique settles in right next to me. His b.o. isn't exactly the reprieve I was hoping for from the nasal assaulting power of sandwich guy's oil and vinegar. The train stutters to a start again and the asian kid nearly falls on top of me before deciding he should probably hold on to something. I try to focus on anything other than the smell and stare at the birthmark on the woman sitting next to me's ankle. Before I can come up with an interesting Rorshach response, the train stops again and I look up to watch the comings and goings. Once again, more people get on than off and everyone on board slides a little closer together.

I try to read the front page of the New York Times that's almost touching me, but its owner turns the paper inside out before I can find out what the FBI is currently saying about airline travel. For some reason, Dominique is antsy now. He keeps shuffling his feet and swaying back and forth slightly. I watch his Air Jordans move back and forth, closer and further from mine until he finally steps on my right foot and looks back towards me. "Sorry, bra," he mumbles.

Among the arrivals at the next stop there's an old man with a stuffed cockatoo and a seemingly married couple of undeterminate ethnicity that seem to be arguing in either portuguese or some middle-eastern dialect. Farsi perhaps? At any rate, their volume is already at eight out of ten before they even walk through the doors. My kingdom for an i-pod. Two stops later, 'Nique gets off and so does the sandwich guy. The equilibrium has finally shifted and there are more people going than coming. Enough seats have cleared out that both the old man and his bird are not comfortable, but I decide to keep standing, partially to be polite and let the older folks and women sit first and partially because I sit down all day at work and it doesn't feel so bad being on my feet for a while, even if I've had to switch strap-arms six times by this point. I've lost track of which stop we're on when bowtie and the birdman leave the train and the only person to climb on is a girl in her mid-to-late twenties. Shoulder-length dyed-red hair that curls up a bit at the tips. She's wearing a sea-foam green t-shirt under a faded burgandy cardigan with a tan Walgreen's tote bag slung over her left shoulder. She manages to grasp the pole on the opposite side of the aisle from where I'm standing just as the train rattles to life and into a tunnel. Her jeans have small factory-made tatters on the left hip pocket.

The arguing couple is still going at it. Their volume hasn't decreased even slightly and they don't seem to be aware of anyone else's discomfort. At least they're on the other side of the car. I try to ignore them and think back over my day. Was that e-mail my boss sent out intended for everyone or just me? Ever since I got there, I've felt like the subject of every memo, the cause for each reminder or warning. Two stops later, the angry couple finally exit the train without so much as pausing their conversation. A guy in a Starbucks uniform, sitting across the aisle from me arches his eyebrows in relief and I nod my agreement. The redhead takes a vacated seat and I notice that her brown Dr. Martens are high-tops, but not calf-high.

It doesn't take long before the train is almost empty and I feel compelled to sit. The knitting lady still occupies her corner and a couple of lawyers are discussing a brief one of them submitted on international copyright laws or something equally uninteresting. The redhead is deeply engrossed in a worn paperback. I'm trying to mentally calculate exactly how much time I have left when she looks up for her book for a second and our eyes meet. "Any good?" I ask.

"It's amazing," she answers. "My favorite." She smiles a bit and I notice that she has incredible dimples.

"I sort of wish I'd thought to bring one," I say. "Who's it by?"

"Gabriel Garcia Marquez. One Hundred Years of Solitude."

"I think I've heard of that one. Sounds like a heavy read."

"It is. Most of my favorites are," she says. She dog-ears a page to save her spot.

"Most of mine are too," I agree. "My name's Ben."

"I'm Carly." She stands up to shake my hand and I rise also. When the handshake is through, she grabs onto a strap and I lean slightly against one of the poles. "What's your favorite book?"

"That's a tough question. I just finished reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers."

"Nope. I've read it. What else ya' got?"

"Umm...The Unbearable Lightness of Being?"

"Sounds like a winner," Carly says with a smile. "I'll trade you."

"I...uhh...don't have it with me," I mutter.

"Of course not. But you're good for it." She pulls a pen out of her tote bag and sits back down to write something in the front cover. "Give me a call when you get a chance and you can live up to your part of the bargain."

She stands up again and hands me the book and I slip it in the front pocket of my messenger bag. "Thank you. I'll definitely give you a call."

"This is my stop," she says as the train brakes. "It was very nice meeting you, Ben." She shakes my hand again and exits the train. I try not to smile too ridiculously.

It's another three stops before the knitting lady and I finally get off. My mind is on anything but work as I climb the stairs toward the street and saunter down the now-dark sidewalk. I hardly notice the dark-haired man with a mustache and a desert-camo jacket as he walks by, but then calls out nervously towards me. "Hey...hey, man...got change for a five?"

I tell him that I do and as I start to pull out my wallet, he pulls a hunting knife out of the inside pocket of his jacket. "Great," he says. "Hand it over, along with your wallet and your bag."

He seems considerably calmer now and I feel like maybe I can bargain with him. "I'll give you the cash, but let me keep my wallet and my bag. There's no laptop in the bag or anything. Nothing but notebooks and paperwork."

"I said hand it over!" The man is agitated again now and I can't quite tell if he's
trembling or purposely thrusting his knife towards me. I quickly hand him my wallet and the messenger bag and he takes off running.

"Wait! Can I at least have my book back?" I yell towards him. I comptemplate chasing him before thinking better of it. He never turns around.