Metro North Gothic — Projectile
explosive outcomes
by Joe Váradi
Funny how split second decisions sometimes take only a few more split seconds to regret.
It was a late Friday evening ride from Midtown Manhattan to one of the less glamorous outer boroughs of New York City. The kind of schizophrenic evening where your body is still reeling and nursing battle wounds from the rat race of the past few days, but your mind is already flying high on the promise of the weekend.
The 7 train emerged from its tunnel under the East River, leaving behind, if only temporarily, the dark claustrophobic maze of arteries where it spends much of its vermicular existence, burrowing through the bedrock of the city.
They were standing not far from me, near the train doors, trying their best to hang onto the overhead rails. Two young women in their early 20s, they were high on something besides the weekend. From the fragments of conversation that reached me, there were a few shots of Jose Cuervo and Grey Goose in that cocktail, too.
The train now rattled its way up to the elevated tracks and began to snake its way past the graffiti-emblazoned lofts and converted warehouses of Long Island City.
One of the pair in particular did not react well to the jerks and swaying of the train car. She abruptly disengaged from the conversation she had been carrying on with her friend. Her body stiffened. Her eyes drifted into a blank stare.
That was when the first barely noticeable convulsion rippled through her body.
I will describe the next five seconds as I observed them, in excruciating, cinematic slow motion.
As she realized that her abdominal muscles would soon join forces to involuntarily expel the contents of her stomach, her facial expression morphed into an amalgam of panic and determination.
A determination to not open her mouth.
You could see her resolutely clench her jaws and lips shut, even as the convulsions originating in her core and traveling up her torso grew more frequent, more pronounced.
Another intense retch made her head lurch forward.
Her oral cavity was now filling up. The policy of containment no longer seemed achievable.
She instinctively glanced around for a receptacle — a plasic bag … anything — but there were none to be found.
or wait — maybe this … the object in her right hand.
As the final spasm took hold of her, her right arm began to trace an arc in the air, lifting the empty 20-ounce plastic bottle of Pepsi to her mouth.
And as her intent became clear, I felt my own reaction crystallize, from shock, to skepticism, to full-on futile protest. But I didn’t even have time to start shaking my head.
She surrendered herself to the heave possessing her body, puckered her lips into a slight opening, and took aim into the neck of the empty bottle.
A moment later, a murky, multicolored mist seemed to explode in all directions, as if someone had vigorously shaken and then opened a can of sarsaparilla soda, some of it landing on the inflicted young woman, some of it on her companion, the rest collecting pools of digestate on the linoleum floor.
Defeated, her arm dropped to her side, with the 20-ounce plastic bottle of Pepsi, almost completely empty still, dangling between her fingers.
The train pulled into a stop, and the door slid open, letting in a surge of fresh air, welcomed by all.
All stories in the Metro North Gothic series are based on actual events either observed or recalled while riding the Metro North Harlem line between Westchester County and Grand Central Station.
