The Subway by Ashini J. Desai

"Miss Manners echoes in your ear, telling you not to stare. You hush her. You know you are allowed to stare. It’s only considered bad manners if you are caught."

14th Street

An empty seat on the E! You dive onto the gray bench and squeeze beside the tall, blond European tourists. They peer at you through sharply styled specs with icy blue eyes like drops of antifreeze. They give you space, as you make yourself smaller in gratitude. They pause for a moment before resuming their staccato conversation. It’s 7:35 on Monday morning and you are thankful not to stand. The doors close. You take a deep breath, inhaling the jumble of scents — a clash of colognes, stale coffee, and general bodily aromas. Is it better than the musty, mechanical, and feral smells on the subway platform? It is debatable.

You let your black leather briefcase bag fall through your knees, allowing it to rest atop your white sneakers; you always leave heels under your desk in the office. The Commuter look of the 1990s. You hope any microbes and other bacteria thriving on the E train seats will not cling to your new suit (is there any color better than moonstone gray?) And if you have collected those microbes, maybe you can redirect them to fly onto the men who sit on the ledges around the CitiCorp building, sipping their blue and white cups of coffee, and leering at the women walking to work.

Penn Station... Times Square…

The European tourists rise to leave, and your body relaxes to a natural state. Is it time to get a manicure? Your classic color Ballet Slippers looks dull now. You must go at lunch tomorrow. You crave a new color, but you know you won’t switch; you’ve found something that works for you. You aimlessly glance around the subway car. Ads for dermatologists and English lessons line the top row. The Brook Brothers-suited bodies firmly clutch the steel bars overhead, lest they topple on the Hilfiger-clad youths.

There is a young man in a black turtleneck and black jeans standing on the side. You can’t see his face but know it’s a moody artist from the West Village channeling James Dean. Doesn’t matter what he looks like, your body releases an involuntary sigh. He’s your type, but you know it’ll never work. It never did.

Across from you now is a young Latina in an oversized red windbreaker and tight black jeans as she searches through her knapsack. With no makeup, except for the cherry lipstick, she looks young and vulnerable. Her black ponytail is slicked back so high and tight that you see blue lines at her temple. You notice the arresting similarity of her veins to the adjacent NYC subway map poster.

Through the cloudy windows across from you, you see a downtown train ramble by. You stare through the spaces and wonder about the passengers aboard the train going the other way. What have they seen on the side you’re going to? What happened over there? What are they seeking on this end of the track? You lock a gaze briefly with the vacant eyes of an Indian man in an olive sweatshirt holding the overhead bar.

He watches you. He sways with the momentum.

You watch him ride away. Very surreal.

Now in the darkness of the tunnel, you catch a glimpse of your reflection. The fullness of your face, the one you knew so well, has diminished; your cheekbones protrude gently. Even in the dim shadowy reflection, your toasted brown lipstick glows brightly. Your hair lies flat against your head, so you run your fingers through it, mostly out of compulsion, knowing it won’t make a difference given the humidity in the subway station.

You suddenly realize you have just a few moments to finish The New York Times Financial Section that you tucked into your bag this morning. You quickly scan and memorize the headlines, since they will come in handy for chats with the clients later. People are moving around and now there’s a nondescript beige trench coat in front of you.

Suddenly, you have that charged feeling. Someone’s watching you. A quick scan of the car reveals nothing unusual. Everyone in the car is occupied with their own business or has adopted the unfocused stare into oblivion. Does anyone care? When you glance above, you see a pair of black Ray-Bans staring down. Why do people wear shades underground? He doesn’t look away. Not yet.

Now he does.

You put your head down to read your paper, but your mind is whirring, muddling the rows of words, making them incomprehensible. He’s standing remarkably close to you. You notice the neatly pressed tan khakis, the uniform of the upwardly mobile.

You take a furtive glance at his face again. A goatee — must be a weekday broker, weekend beatnik. Or thinks he is.

The crowd jostles a bit and there’s an open pole. The Beige Trench Coat with Tan Khakis releases his grip from the overhead bars and leans against a newly vacant pole, grounding himself against the jolts from the train. He tilts his head up to read the “Poetry in Motion” signboard. You know he’s pretending, since he couldn’t possibly read those tiny words with dark shades. Now that he stepped out of your personal space, you can get a better look at him. Miss Manners echoes in your ear, telling you not to stare. You hush her. You know you are allowed to stare. It’s only considered bad manners if you are caught.

You spot his well-buffed black shoes. Did the shoeshine boys at Penn Station do it? Your speculation leads you to believe yes and that he would tip well only if someone were watching.

The train jerks forward and stops. You know there must be an F train in front. There always is. They announce, “There’s an F train in front.” Now you have the time to keep reading, though you’re tempted to read the Arts and Entertainment section, find out what’s playing at the Angelika this weekend. Not that you would go.

Seventh Avenue… Fifth Avenue…

Bodies line in anticipation on both sides of the doors. Some are eager to enter, while other are edging to leave. Unspoken words: My way is more important than yours, so move your body for me. The crowd herds itself out. You hear voices excusing themselves. But their pardons fall upon ears plugged into headphones, into another time and space. You watch the rote choreography of commuters. The shuffles. The sidesteps. The jabs.

You notice a window on the left side with graffiti now that the space has cleared. The word “Amoeba” glows in white paint against the scuffed window.

You hate that word. Your heart starts hammering against your chest. Your eyes dart about the train. How did this appear on your train, your everyday train? Blank faces return your questioning glares.

Harsh memories manifest to appear in front of you. The Amoeba, they called you. “You have no shape just like an Amoeba” the boys yelled. The chanting, the crooning in the vicious singsong tune of schoolchildren — Amoeba, Amoeba.

“You’ll have to reproduce yourself” taunted the girls, turning into their tight huddles. Pages were torn from science books and scattered across your desk. Blobs were drawn on the board as you walked into classrooms. You would sit down and fight the tears, often putting your head down on your desk. Closing your eyes. Closing your ears. You sank deeper into isolation, into an abyss of loneliness. Until you finally decided to leave, seizing the power and courage back.

The recollection of the mockery becomes tangible. Your skin pricks with humiliation, and bitterness lies thickly on your tongue. You tug at your suit jacket for freedom.

You look around the train and see a dismembered throng — heads, arms, legs, and backs. Mouths open and close, releasing only indiscernible noise. Bodies encircle the vertical bar in the middle of the car. Naked hands grip the shiny metal, one on top of each other like ribbons circling a maypole. Clenched fingers, careful not to touch, grip the bar for support.

A bag brushes against your knees. On its way to the shoulder, a knapsack is about to graze your face. You save yourself by dipping your head to the side, a move mastered through muscle memory. You realize people are converging by the door.

You quickly stand up and brace yourself against the stream of bumps, as the train skids to a halt. You seize the steel bar over your head. The metal bar is warm. You must get off. Your legs must carry you off the train.

As you get closer to the window you see the lettering up close. It reads “Sheeba.” There’s no Amoeba. You realize you must put the past behind you.

53rd and Lexington. Last stop in Manhattan.

You rush for the exit, but you can only go as fast as the slowest person in front of you. You see the longest escalator in the city; the heights are always daunting. But you don’t look up because it’s overwhelming. You look down at your feet as you take one step at a time.

Don’t look back either because it’s just as scary to see how far you’ve come.

The streams of people step off the escalators to merge into crowds, shuffling towards the exit doors. Once you step outside, the subterranean world will be left. The past, the hurt, the person you used to be—but you were never that person. That is who they thought you were. Now, you feel a little sorry for those people who never got to know the real you. And the betrayals are long gone.

The familiar New York City air hits your face. You take a deep breath to release the emotions your body has been holding. The time is now.

---

Ashini balances creative writing with a family and a technology career, given a BA in English and MS in Information Science. While she does not write for a living, she writes to live, especially coming from a family of writers and readers. Her work is published in Dandelion Revolution Press’s anthologies, Not Quite As You Were Told, The Secrets We Keep and Every Breath Alight. Her poems have been published in anthologies Cities, Overplay/Underdone, as well as various literary journals. Her selected poems are found on AshiniPoetry.Blogspot.com and on Instagram as @AshiniWrites.

Photo by Erik.

Click to read our full Spring 2024 issue: Transitions.