Subway Ride
Nora looked up at the minimalist clock on her office wall and realized that she needed to get home. Her cats hadn’t been fed all day.
Down at street level, the relentless rain and the late hour turned Nora’s simple daily routine of hailing a cab into a 45-minute cheerleading act, played ever more aggressively with each passing off-duty taxi. Finally acknowledging the axiom that one can never get a cab in the rain, Nora took off, darting from awning to awning, on her way to the Brooklyn Bridge Subway Station. She ambled up to the token booth.
“What subway train goes to 57th and Park?”
“Take the #6 train to 59th Street, miss; I’m afraid you’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”
“Thank you so much. It’s been over 10 years since the last time I’ve taken the subway.”
“Yes, I understand. Next.” The attendant was already looking past her at an invisible waiting patron.
Nora stepped into the subway car grateful no one else was there. She slumped onto the hard bench, and finally allowed herself a deep sigh of relief.
Just as the subway doors were finally closing, Nora heard someone grunting as if under great stress. She turned and saw the torso of a man punching through the nearly shut doors, his crab-like fingers grasping the doorframes in a struggle to free himself. His contorted back betrayed his effort. Nora amusedly watched the farcical battle between man and machine. At last, through a final seemingly superhuman effort, the man’s lower extremities sprung forth, revealing a tall, bony frame.
At that point, Nora lost interest and turned her attention to the advertisements plastered across the car’s ceiling. A small ad for “AIDS Awareness” prompted her to pucker her lips and release a loud kissing sound. The ad was part of an ad campaign she remembered designing over 3 years ago for which she won her second Cleo.
Suddenly, a loud thump reengaged her eyes to the tall man. He was now standing in front of her, his face covered by a ski mask, pointing a gun to her face. Nora’s back stiffened and her light smile evaporated into a mass of tout facial muscles.
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“Your coat, NOW, you rich motherfucker.”
Nora cautiously stood up, tiny beads of sweat running down her temples. In one swift body turn, she slipped the mink coat off her shoulders, and tossed it into the man’s face. The man tried to catch the coat with his free hand, but a sudden jerk of the train forced him to grab the overhead bar instead, allowing the coat to drop at his feet. He stood there transfixed by his predicament. He slowly brought the gun before his eyes and stared at it in disbelief, then quickly, furtively hid it back in his coat pocket. Checking Nora’s expressionless gaze, he gently picked up the coat, brushed its sensuous surface and draped it across his arm. A tense moment of still action followed.
“I don’t do this,” the man screeched in a raspy, tremulous voice, his entire body wobbling fearfully. His hand clutched around the bar was the only thing keeping him from collapsing under his own weight. “But I’m sick. You … you understand.”
Nora thought perversely that there was a gentle, familiar lilt in the man’s voice.
“The necklace,” the man pleaded, as long streaks of perspiration were seeping through his grimy coat.
Nora, having regained her resilient poise, unlatched the double strand of natural pearls, a gift to herself on her thirtieth birthday, and casually flung it at the man. The man clumsily tried to swoop it out of the air, releasing his hold on the bar in the process. The train jerked violently and the man, who by then could barely stand up, fell back, dropping the coat, and knocking his head against the hard, unforgiving bench. After a series of bloodcurdling convulsions, the man’s body came to an implosive standstill.
Nora walked over, removed the ski mask and took a long look at the man’s face. A dissonant bout of throaty laughter contorted Nora’s body. “Wadda y’know?” Her mind wandered to a distant past.
Nora picked her pearl necklace off the floor and deftly reattached it around her neck. She slipped back into her coat, languidly feeling the smoothness of its pile. She thrust her hand into the man’s coat, retrieved her purse, and let the gun casually slip inside it. She then reached for her compact. Within seconds she deleted all facial signs that may have betrayed her recent incident. She returned the compact to her purse, and then pulled the emergency brake cord.
Within minutes, two uniformed transit police officers entered the car.
“Thank you officers for arriving so promptly, there has been a slight accident,” Nora articulated in confident tones. “He lost his balance when the train stopped suddenly, and he fell and hit his head, but I don’t think it’s serious,” Nora declaimed, pointing her finger at the man lying on the floor, who by now was rocking back and forth and whimpering pitifully. “Would you mind, officers, helping me carry my husband to a taxi. I’m a nurse, I know what to do.”
