a subway story

The train was nearly an hour late. Rain found it’s way through the grates and onto her clothes. Every couple of seconds a new body pushed her aside, shoved her down, edged her away. There was no space, but space was sought. Finally a slight wind caught her crumbling hair announcing the coming subway train. It inched into the station, mocking them. A slow panorama of stuffed cars, packed cars, sardined cars, and bulging cars made its way past her. Her car was disappointingly empty. Groans began. The commiseration of New Yorkers: this car was either an unbearable hotbox or the home of some homeless person with a smell not even a mother could love. The bell rang, and the doors let loose the answer. No one had ever smelled this level of foulness. She marched on. It was only a few stops, and if she waited any longer, someone would end up pushing her onto the tracks.

Like a cork pulled from the side of a barrel, her movement caused a rush onto the car. The bum was in the corner asleep. She – at least she thought this person was a she – didn’t have many bags. Her clothes were in the worst shape she had ever seen. Threadbare would have been generous. The other travelers smashed themselves as far away from the offending corner as possible, but her feet were tired and since the seat next to the woman was free, she sat down.

Either she was getting used to it or the smell was coming from somewhere else, but it seemed to ease and become bearable. She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment and then looked around and at her neighbor. This woman was far too thin and her skin too dry. The shoes could barely be called pieces of rubber. She pigeon-toed her feet as if it would make her overpriced pumps invisible. The woman snorted, yawned, looked around and went back to sleep. She opened her purse and pulled out a card, a little satchel and a pen. “If there is any way I can help you, please call me.” She wrote out her number and tied the card to the satchel. While deciding if she should wake the woman or leave it, she almsot missed her stop. She quickly pressed the packet into the closest hand, wished the woman a good night and leaped off the car. At home, her feet finally found a good soak and a quick massage. The phone was silent as she made another satchel: two dollars of quarters, fifty dollars in cash, and a Monthly Unlimited MetroCard. She picked up her cat, checked the alarm and headed to bed. As she slipped under the covers, Meredith Brooks’ Bitch started playing on her phone. She should expect these calls by now at exactly the time she didn’t want to take them, but every time she was surprised.

Hello.
I don’t know who you think you are, but I am doing just fine and I don’t appreciate you thinking otherwise.
I’m sorry.
Everything is fine. You can take your money back.
That’s okay. You can give it to whomever you think needs it.
Why do you think I know someone that needs it?
Everybody does.
They why don’t you give it to your “someone.”
When I see her I will, but…
Look. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your money. I don’t want your Kindness. What I want is to be left alone, but you didn’t think to ask what I wanted. Did it make you feel better giving me that money?
Yes. That’s why I gave it to you.
What about me?
Look, throw the money in the trash. Rip it up. The point of giving someone something is to give it to them. If I gave a shit what you did with it, I would give you whatever the fuck I thought you should do with it.
You kiss your mother with that mouth?
Only when she deserves it.

She heard a snort through the phone.

Okay, honey. I think you are crazy, but I’ll keep it. Or something. Now it’s late, you better get to sleep.
Yes, ma’am. Have a good night.

The line was already dead.

C’mon CabyBakes, let’s go night-night.

Out on Coney Island, the woman checked the change slot of the payphone and turned and started walking toward the beach.

C’mon Chester, the stars are promising us some entertainment tonight.

A midnight black cat sauntered after her, playing with the tatters of her skirt. He snuggled up in her lap once she sat down in the warm sand and leaned on the fake palm tree in the playground. They looked up as the first meteor shot through the sky.

Isn’t that beautiful?

When I imagined this story originally, it did not go this way. The people on the subway were going to die in a blistery near-hallucination, but the "kind woman" would be spared. The homeless woman would keep her from the destruction when she tried to help. I'm much happier with how this one went. Let the story tell itself!