Everything Underground

The subway in the city of Dukeport is not a wonder. Most of the stops are along the waterfront, servicing the harbor. Underground it is narrow and harshly lit. The big dull marble tiles on the platforms are cracked and dirty. There are two tracks. On one side the train comes in. On the other side the train goes out. There are no benches, nowhere to sit. Screens that display the estimated wait times are often out of service. The setting is bleak. But it is efficient. There’s a train every few minutes during the day. And at peak hours the platform is lively with a crowd as thick as in the street above. And no one wants to sit. They just want to be out of it. They lean to watch eagerly up the tracks for the train to come and when it does they press in and rush the doors.

In the group that rushed the doors of the subway car that afternoon there was a scruffy blond boy and a gray, pale woman. The boy was dressed up, in his own way. He had his fanciest sneakers on, bright neon, colorful, with flashy thick laces. A straight-brimmed cap mashed down his hair. The loose, blue hoodie was new, everything clean and fresh. The woman could have been his grandmother, but she was no one’s grandmother. She pressed that fact with her own grown children so often that it may have been the reason none of them lived in Dukeport anymore. There was a lot of frankincense in her perfume. The makeup on her face gave her skin the chalky texture –not smooth — of the powder in the compact before she had blotted it on.

These two came into the train car and sat on either side of a three-person bench beside the door. The woman put her bag in the space between them. The bench faced the window. They could see the front line of riders waiting on the platform. The doors closed and the train set off. They watched the people through the window slide away, faces they’d never seen before and never would again.

At the next station a giant crowd was lined up as the train came in. The car was going to fill up for sure. Knowing the etiquette, the woman sat up straight, condensing herself. She moved her bag to her lap. The boy didn’t catch on right away but as passengers were tripping over his long legs he finally pulled them under his seat. Folks boarded and shuffled to the back of the car. Some chose to stand. When the train started going again there weren’t many people still scouting a seat but one man went up and down the aisle being choosy. He stopped at two empty bucket seats and seemed ready to sit. But then he hesitated and came back toward the door.

The woman was watching. She wished he would hurry and just pick a place or go to the back of the car. As he came near she hoped he would decide to stand beside the door. Maybe the next stop is his stop, she thinks, just please. Please don’t let this black man sit here in this seat. But he did. He muttered a quiet, “How are ya?” and nodded. Then he sat between them.

The woman stiffened. What did it mean that this man sat beside her? There were other free seats, certainly. Had he noticed her from the moment he got aboard?

The man carried a large paper bag which he set at his feet. He opened it. Inside there was a white carry-out box and a magazine. The man took the magazine and spread it across his lap. The woman knew it was of low taste. She didn’t want to look. It was not her business. She looked. The glossy pages showed women holding themselves in ridiculous positions with their ironed hair falling over their bare shoulders. This man was just what the woman had expected. She wouldn’t look at the magazine again. She stared out the broad window but there was nothing to see but the dim guts of the underground. She was looking at the magazine again. Why had he sat in this seat? What had she done to encourage this? It was against everything she hoped to convey about herself that this man, a man like this, would select her for a bench mate.

The blond boy felt the presence of his neighbor just as keenly. He had watched the man pass over other free seats. Those were the seats of convenience. One passenger sitting beside a vacancy was even black! But the man had chosen this seat. And it made the blond boy swell with pride.

He turned the bill of his cap from 1 o’clock to 11 o’clock. He felt easy in the approval of his community. This man had evaluated the boy and accepted him for the easy confidence he meticulously projected, his slouch, his uncaring gaze. The man had elevated the blond boy. He was down with it. This was a triumph. The boy crossed his arms loosely thinking, hell yeah!

The next stop came. The woman and the boy stood. As the boy went out he caught the man’s eye and raised his chin conspiratorially. The man was puzzled by this. The woman hurried to the door but before stepping out she glanced back. The man had put his bag up on her seat. She felt vaguely certain that was the thing all along. Ah, she thought. He knew he could drive me off. She felt exploited and weak. She hated that kind of man. Then both were gone in the crowd on the platform.

New passengers took the empty seats. In a place with two open bucket seats a frazzled woman was about to sit down heavily without looking when the man called to stop her.

“Watch out there ma’am. I wanted to sit there myself but something’s on that seat there. Something like yogurt.”

“Oh.” She looked and saw it. “Thank you.” And she decided to stand.