Subway Stories

She sighs heavily, the rumbling tracks reverberating through the background as she gently stretches her fingers to keep them loose. This is rush hour, and hardly a moment passes that a train full of relieved laborers doesn't squeal by, momentarily drowning out her voice. That voice, soft and guarded, pleaded for the recognition of the commuters. Her fingers plucked away at the keys dutifully, filling the platform with a hint of a song. A song that would fit perfectly with a film scene of a boy telling a girl he can't do without her, just before she walks away. Perhaps what's why she sang. If her life was that film, she seemed to be the boy, and the music was the girl, ever slipping away. But it was supposed to be different. New York was where she would make it. Where her previously lauded talents would finally be recognized, and she would live the life that she saw when her eyes were closed and her mind went free. So she picked a keyboard and some walking shoes and descended into the subway for the first time.

That was six months ago. Now, as the D train began to disappear around the bend, it's last bit of light fading into the tunnel, she closed her eyes once more. She felt the cool breeze of the passing car and lifted her voice, hoping that someone would really listen this time.

Subway Short Stories

Everyone called her Bella. Though she no longer felt the inherent rush of the beauty of youth. Her hair, still full, lacked the attention required to arrange it into the gaze attracting crown it once was. Her eyes were still lively. Darting about hungrily among the passersby.

It was winter now, and she rode the J train toward Manhattan, across the twinkling landscape of the Brooklyn street lights. Her life was now a collections of portions of time. 92 minutes to work. 240 minutes on the floor before she allowed herself a smoke break. 35 minutes to eat, and 24 minutes to walk off whatever she ordered from the local deli. Another 92 minutes home, before her 127 minutes for dinner and errands. Once the clock struck 10:00pm, it was time to reset the board and play the game again.

The 92 minutes navigating the turnstiles, tracks and seats of the MTA were her favorite. There she subtly fixed her eyes in the myriad of people traversing the urban jungle. She noticed the shoes that didn't match the dress. The tie with just the right amount of dimple. The elegance of the woman sweeping through the turnstile as if she were entering her cotillion. The fussy little man wishing that somebody, anybody, would comment on his clearly planned attempt at sartorial nonchalance.

This was her focus once. When her deft hands sorted through pages of discarded magazines, noticing trends, absorbing patterns, folds, and textures. Now she was here. Gleaning her pride from the smiles of her patients, feeding and medicating them to their heart's content. This seemed to be the more important thing. Relieving another human's discomfort was surely more honorable than just making them look good, even though she knew that her need was somewhere else. At home she dreamt of style. At home that dream still seemed ahead of her.

 

But this was America.