Stories on the Subway

aolartists:

The trick to finding a seat on the L train is to find the people most likely to get off at Bedford and hover over them. When you first step onto the train at Union Square, take a look around. Is there anyone who looks calm and sure about their future? Are they wearing expensive clothing, or are they sporting sunglasses while underground? These people are your prey. Just like the pricey shirts that you’ll find at Goodwill a few weeks from now, eventually they will loosen their grip on the seat they presently claim to own. 

Increasingly it feels as if those that make the most money, are those that need it the least. Young adults living in Williamsburg for $2300 a month, graduating without student loans or any debt, find themselves employed with job titles like “Media Strategist,” or “Producer.” The worst part is that often, they are good at their jobs. Rich kids aren’t used to being told “no,” which oddly makes them perfectly suited to make deals with other companies and “important stakeholders.” In the end, their brattiness has become a lucrative and desired skill set. Pass by Bedford, Lorimer and Graham. 

By the time you arrive at Grand St., you should have been able to find a seat to rest your tired legs and bullied mind. Relax along with the other tired passengers, and take comfort in the fact that all of you, be you strangers, have one rich fuck in common that prevented you from sitting down at Union Square.  

Struggling, he makes his way between the moving trains. With one hand, he opens the train door while the other grasps firmly on his wooden cane. He knows to waste no time telling his story. Soon, a woman’s voice will overtake his to announce our arrival at Grand St.  

He speaks monotonously, taking time to enunciate each word and project his voice, “Excuse me ladies and gentlemen.” The passengers have heard this introduction before. He pays this no mind as he surveys his perfect audience. Heads remain down, but their attention is confined to the subway train. 

“I broke my back. I can’t find work. I applied for disability, but I was rejected. My lawyer says I have a thirty percent chance of being accepted if I apply again.” He recounts his story in bureaucratic detail, outlining each of his familiar tragedies as if filling out a written form. 

His wife passed away. He is a single parent. He was denied disability. He applied for benefits but did not receive them. 

Walking through the train, he grasps the polls to break his uneven steps. The passengers, trained to ignore errant voices, begin to look up at this tall, white man in the gray cap and red jacket. There is no sound of change clinking. Instead, dollar bills are pulled from wallets, which the man takes while struggling to navigate the moving subway car. Stretched over his body is a heavy bag with the words Columbia University. 

One woman takes a special interest in his story. She tells him about programs, and safe places he can go. “I had money before, he says, trying to reclaim his past life, “but I spent it.”

A moment passes and the train doors open. Clutching his cane he exits, shuffling his feet along the floor in his New Balance shoes. The tired passengers watch him leave, taking their chance to travel to a different destination.

“I was just so mad at you, I didn’t want to come inside.”

The man’s voice manages to pierce the dead air of the packed subway car. The girl mumbles something inaudibly, in return.  

“I took one last sip of wine, and finished my cigarette. I put it out and then I came inside.”

He’s arguing with her while holding a tray of spicy chicken strips. She’s turned in his direction, her face is hidden, leaving only a bobbing bun viewable through the throng of tired commuters. She mumbles back to him.

The man speaks loudly: “Jesus. I didn’t do it because I didn’t want to. I knew you were going to say that. I knew you were going to step outside and tell me that it’s over.” 

A woman’s voice rings through the loudspeaker, “This is 1st Avenue.” The doors open, they exit. A man calls after them, “stand clear of the closing doors.”