On the Subway

On the Subway
         “Excuse me sir, could you kindly not die on me?  It’s very rude and I’m just not in the mood to have some smelly, shabby, insignificant homeless man drop dead on top of me today.  It’s too early in the morning for death,”  the subway bench uttered, smooshed under the weight of what now appeared to be a lifeless transit bum.  This was certainly not the way the subway bench envisioned his morning starting off: an inconvenience to say the least.  Homeless folks dying in subway cars was always a risk many benches took, but even though it finally happened to ol’ Number 3 he still seemed unpleasantly annoyed.  “Can somebody kindly get this…this thing off of me?”  Maybe someone heard his muffled attempt to remove the body.  Perhaps a fellow transit commuter, taking pity on poor Number 3, might relieve him of this annoying burden and push it to the floor.  Anything was better than having a detestable, horrid, putrid (and might we add dead) thing squishing the helpless subway bench.
         The subway roared to a screeching halt as the doors swung open.  Several commuters, obsessed with the morning business reports and last night’s baseball game, hurried out of the car without even a glance towards the now obviously dead nuisance laying on top of Number 3.  It was heavy indeed. Years of cheap fast food and long winter nights on the streets had fatten it up with clothes and multiple chins.  The weight grew increasingly unbearable for the subway bench, not to mention the smell.  No doubt some dried urine stains lined the body’s pant leg.  “This is certainly not acceptable,” Number 3 thought.  “Somebody…please…get this body off me!”  His pleas became more desperate, as if he were slowly suffocating under the weight of neglect and oblivion.
         “This is a downtown 3 express train.  Chambers Street is next!”  The doors slammed shut as one last commuter slid through them, happy to have squirmed his way onto the train.  The car began rocking back and forth again as it moved along the tracks.  The commuters, unfazed by the swaying, the smell, and the sounds of the tunnel, stared intently at their newspapers.  Some listened to mp3 players, completely isolating themselves from any human contact.  A light flickered off and on.  A dead man laid on a bench.  The train moved briskly around a sharp bend causing a few businessmen to grab hold of the handrails, bracing themselves for another turn.  The conductor’s voice blared over the intercom as the train came to violent stop, flinging its inhabitants towards the front.  “This is Chambers Street!”  The doors flew open, a stream of people flooded the platform and raced up the stairs to the streets.  In the shuffle, the dead man’s body slid off Number 3 and dropped to the floor.
         Finally! It seemed like an eternity since Number 3 could breathe the damp, dingy subway air again.  It didn’t matter.  He was free: free from that reeking carcass, that drain on society, that useless hobo.  One less member of skid row.  “What a completely dreadful experience.  I must say, I absolutely despise being used by the homeless.  They’re so….they’re so….inhuman,” Number 3 stated matter-of-factly.  Never in his entire life had Number 3 been more relieved.  Aside from the fact that a dead person lay sprawled out on the floor, everything seemed to be back to normal, and he couldn’t be happier.
***
      The man waited patiently at the station for the subway to arrive.  He had been waiting for almost 20 minutes now and was beginning to wonder if the transit authority somehow switched the schedule in order to work on the track.  Everyone knew this was a joke.  Tracks are never worked on, just closed.  It had been a long night, but he finally managed to find a place to stay.  Well, it really wasn’t a place, more like a spot tucked in between two apartment buildings.  All the shelters were full by the time he got there, and he didn’t have enough cash to buy a room at the Cozy Bunny Inn.  “Besides,” the man mused, “those rooms always have bed bugs and rats.”  It had been a rough winter.  Many shelters throughout the city were closing due to harsh economic times and even harsher budget cuts.  Despite all the churches’ dedication to the homeless population, it seemed now they were devoted to a higher power: the dollar.  But that is neither here nor there. 
      The man peered down the long, dark corridor, seeing nothing but the faint light emanating from the neighboring station.  More and more people filtered into the station on their way to work no doubt.  Some had newspapers or mp3 players, absorbed, as if they were trying to block out the world.  Newspapers were a luxury for the man, used for lining his clothes and keeping him warm rather than for reading.  He didn’t really care about the local sports teams or the financial markets.  Those things wouldn’t buy him a hot meal or a warm blanket, and they certainly would not treat him like a human being.  “Funny how we become what we read,” the man mumbled to himself, staring off into space.  “I know what I’d do with the sports section.”  The people around him moved farther away, just now recognizing his smell and listening to him talk to himself.  He was all alone, a 10 foot buffer zone intensifying his seclusion from the rest of the platform.
      Finally lights appeared and were growing down the tunnel.  An announcement crackled over the loud speaker.  “There is a downtown express train approaching the station.  Please stand back.”  People hurriedly began jockeying for position.  Seats were hard to come by during the morning rush hours.  The train slowed to a standstill as the doors slid open.  Passengers raced out of the car as if they were in a mad dash for the stairs.  With the car now empty, the man stepped into the metal box and sat down.  Others soon entered, only to sit or stand as far away from the leper as possible.  Urine stains and a god-awful stench do not make for pleasant rides.  But while most people in his condition rode the subway as a means for escaping the cold, he actually had a destination in mind.  He needed to get downtown for St. John Cathedral’s morning breakfast and shower.
      The train doors closed and the car whined down the track, leaving a whirlwind of garbage stirred up behind it.  The man settled down in his seat while the commuters avoided him like the plague.  Homelessness was definitely a black eye in the face of the city, and he felt the social segregation poignantly.  But now he had a much bigger problem.  His right arm had gone numb, and he felt like a 10 ton weight had just been dropped on his chest.  He had difficulty breathing.  He tried to open his mouth and say something but only silence came out.  The other passengers were oblivious to his sudden arm movements, too focused on their mp3s and their papers.  Every second the man gasped for air, feeling a heavier and heavier weight being placed on his heart.  The pressure was so unbearable he ripped his coat open trying to relieve the force of the entire subway car.  A commuter standing across from him casually glanced at him, smirked, and continued on reading his paper.  The man tried to scream again.  Nothing.  Perhaps his vocal chords had gone numb as well.  Perhaps he did yell but his fellow passengers’ ears went numb.  Nobody knows. 
      His breathing became more labored.  His heart burned.  Thoughts raced through the man’s mind.  “Somebody...anybody...please get this...this thing off me!  I can’t take it anymore!”  Maybe someone heard his silent attempt to remove the invisible weight off him.  His cries became more and more frantic, but no one budged.  Sweat poured down the man’s face as he despairingly fought for his life.  But there would be no salvation today, only stoic onlookers worried more about the gossip column and the minor league baseball team than some homeless bum.  Slumped over on the bench, sitting in his own filth.  The train howled to a shrieking stop.  The doors flung open as commuters rushed out of the car, anxious to leave the car.  “This is a downtown 3 express train.  Chambers Street is next.”