Autopiløt

I lean my head against the cool window as the subway enters a tunnel, sweet darkness. Generally darkness terrifies me, but today it's calming, relaxing even. I feel myself doze off only to be jolted awake but the sudden stop of the subway.

As the subway speeds up again, I look around to see the people sharing my transportation system. On my left is a homeless man, drinking out of a crinkled brown paper bag. On the right is a woman holding a baby and the hand of a little boy, her face appears forlorn or tired, I can't tell the difference. Across from me is a man that looks to be about my age reading something. I bend down to see the title more clearly; "All My Sons".

I quickly dissect every play I've read and read about trying to figure out who the author is.

Arthur Miller, pretty sure. No, definitely Arthur Miller. The man looks up and I realize I've been staring at him.

"May I help you with something?" He asks in the nicest way you could ask that question.

"I was just trying to figure out what you were reading." I reply, dryly.

"Oh," he holds up the cover for me to see. "'All My Sons,' have you read it?"

"I've never read it, but I've read about it. Is it any good?"

"Yes it is. I'm doing it for a school project. I'm at the part where he causes the death of twenty one pilots."

"That would be a good name for a band," I tell him.

"What? 'The Death Of'?"

"No, twenty one pilots."