written for the school of the new york times, summer 2019, term 4, the city as muse.
...
The light at the end of the tunnel is a noisy one, a dim and yellowed speck the colour of the teeth of a smoker clutching the last cigarette of the pack he went through today.
The light at the end of the tunnel is a dreary one that expands and suddenly explodes into concrete bricks and walls and noises of people bouncing off the walls, echoing, echoing around and into someone's ears as they open their mouth to make a sound that becomes lost in the crowd.
There is a muffled scream of a little girl as her mother clutches her to her chest and they rock back, thrown by the momentum of suddenly shuddering to a stop and a faint memory of an inertia that carried them forward until it couldn't, held back by the harsh scream of a brake.
There is a sign outside the window that reads 50th Street, the white letters beginning to fade and peel off from the black backings on the poles and then it's gone in a blur and another one appears, slow as the Friday evening traffic in Los Angeles.
And then it stops.
All the movement stops for a moment and there is nothing but the hum of electricity buzzing through its veins as the people huddle near the closed panels, peering out the windows at the hordes waiting impatiently to get in with their folded newspapers and half-empty Starbucks cups with lipstick stains as they, too, wait impatiently to get out.
There is a man sitting dejectedly in the corner next to the woman with her arms crossed tightly, eyeing him almost in fear as he brushes the concrete dust and grime on his pants off. Too close for comfort to her Louis Vuitton purse. A little bit too close, as she sees his enormous lunchbox and the sign above.
Please report all suspicious packages to the MTA immediately.
She stands up from her plastic orange seat, heading for the crowd as her heels click on the creaky metal, and across from her, an old woman edges around her toward it, clutching her plastic grocery bags in one hand and animatedly gesturing to a friend in the other as she shuffles toward the chair. Her curls, a grey tinged with the white streaks of age, bounce around as she tries to navigate the crowd, a rowboat lost in a riptide.
Another man, earbuds firmly stuffed in and hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, heads toward it too, crossing the space between him in five steps---four steps---three---two---
---and then he's in the seat and she looks quietly at him, oblivious to the world with the rock music streaming in his ears.
But the construction man, in his dusty orange pants and neon yellow shirt, stands up and gestures to his empty seat, nodding at her.
She smiles gratefully, the old woman with little more than half her teeth left but baring them with pride as she slips into that empty seat and pulls her friend into another.
And the first woman who had leaned away from him and his mysterious package is just watching. Quietly, as if she should be there and yet she shouldn't.
Distantly removed from the hubbub and noise of New York City.
When he had stood up, she had lurched away, almost as if it was instinctive, almost as if it was a reflex gained from years and decades of training to avoid those strangers. To walk on the inside of the curb, hugging the buildings and keeping her chin up. To see the towering edifices of Wall Street, of course, but also to avoid the glance of the people begging for change next to the click-clack of her shoes.
