My Blog

A blabberfest of run-on emotions and exaggerations whispers of doubt and shouts of twentysomethings angst of thanks of unrequited regrets dreams and more, more dharma more spazz more jazz more of the stark ugly thoughts of the half truths and starry wide wants, of feeling and touch, of nothing at all. Of me.

Thursday, August 28, 2003

N-Train

"What would you do if you had all the money in the world?" "I'd snap out of my reverie." _________________________ There was an incident yesterday. On the N train, heading uptown. North to home, to dinner, to another normal night of whatevers and whatnots. Jun and Paul were making "stupid faces" and I was taking it all in with my Palm camera. Bugged eyes. Pouting lips. Gansta pose. We stood next to the door as blue streaks passed by on the outside and the train deposited and picked up passengers. "Step all the way in please. Step all the way in." Passengers packed together like matchsticks, sharing oxygen and frittering, ready for the end of the workday. My arms flailed and banged against the metal railing as Jun crushed against my neck. The car lurched, shuddering for a couple of seconds, then slowly screeched to a stop. 23rd street station. Men started for the door, checking their watches. Women smoothed their skirts and rose from their seats. The door stayed shut. Crossed eyes. Paul smirked and I laughed as Jun giggled. The door didn't budge. I peered out the stained windows. Normal. Parents with toddlers, a smattering of chattering teenagers - men and women milled about, waiting for the train to open its doors. Our fellow passengers slowly sat down and waited patiently. Two minutes. Short minutes because we three were still within hazy conversation. Long minutes in retrospect. A group of girls, not yet matured, were crying outside our window. Men with briefcases and women with purses begin to exit the station outside. Fingers pointed one way, then another. What was going on? Down. Look down. Below the tracks? Jun tapped the windows, motioning for another observer. What happened? We filed out of the train. I stopped and looked back, wondering if I should get out since this wasn't my stop. Something was happening. Some people stayed in the train. Others exited quickly. Still, some were like me, standing haltingly on the platform. Oh my God. Jun clutched her mouth and gestured to the door that just spat us out. Crimson. Blood on our door. Shining and bright dripping - like paint or jam or wine. Not yet congealed. Much lighter than the stuff in the movies. Blood on the platform, red on yellow, ketchup on mustard. Blood on the side of our subway car, a lazy streak, eloquent, curving against the silver frame, like a Nike swoosh or a Nerf football. Paul said, "What happened?" I think we hit someone. Shit. "Everyone please exit the station. We have a passenger incident. Stations from Canal Street to 34th Street will be closed until further review. Please exit to 23rd or 28th Streets." The metallic voice spurred a dazed population to action. People streamed out of the station, turnstiles spinning and heavy swinging doors grunting at the effort. Jun pulled Paul and I against the flow of traffic. "I wanta see. C'mon." You're so insane I thought, but she threaded her way down the platform. I followed with morbid curiosity and petulant indignation at my wasted minutes on the way home. Paul protested. Dirty indigo jeans and a dirty green T-shirt. A clean white towel. A bloodied mangled arm. Right arm. The towel was draped over a cocked head. To the right side. Face down; it wasn't even a body anymore. Not human. To me, it was now just a mass of flesh, bloodied and still. It was a news item, a story invention - it was not real. It wasn't a man. There wasn't a story to him. He didn't really live, have a life. It was just parts, medical and biological parts. Bloodied lateral tricep brachii muscles. Twisted phalanges. Crumpled cranial cavity. Zygomaticus muscles pressed to the pavement. I grabbed Jun and Paul and climbed up to the streets. He wasn't real. Faceless, kin-less, probably jobless. Who did he love? What did he do? How was he as a child? What were his dreams, his lusts, his failures? His life? People stopped to ask us, what happened? "Can't go there. Subway incident. Lines not working." They walked on. Cars blared their horns and people chattered on the way home from work. An elderly woman crossed the street as the light turned green. A couple of tourists snapped a few photos of buildings against a darkening blue afternoon sky. Normal night, with normal dinners and it's normal going home, except for the distant sound of sirens, as the ambulances and firetrucks made their way towards us, towards the incident.