Metro North Gothic — Sniffles
seasonal offerings
by Joe Varadi
Full disclosure, this in fact takes place on a New York City subway line, not a Metro North train like my previous stories, but that’s neither here nor there, both are run by the same fine people of the Metropolitan Transit Authority.
Winter morning, soggy boots, giant parkas and puffer jackets packed onto movable meat lockers. Standing room only. Bags slugged over shoulders, half the hands gripping overhead rails, the rest clutching phones.
A crowd-sourced balancing act.
Over the buzz of leaky ear phones and commuter chatter, I hear a familiar yet disconcerting sound.
A sniffle.
Then another. Seconds pass. A third, this time with more sound and fury.
I see her. Seems distressed. A translucent bead is forming between her nose and upper lips. And the sniffles can do no more than to delay the inevitable.
Why doesn’t she … oh, I see, she just patted down her pockets. Her look of terror betrays the truth.
No tissues.
We had just left Queensboro Plaza, citybound, and are now in the East River tunnel. It could be another five minutes until we reach the 59th Street station at Lexington.
