Thin-skinned

The Subway Chronicle

Everything on the subway feels too something. The trains are too few. The stairs leading up out of the too-steamy platforms are too narrow as the commuters edge in for too little space and then step too slowly up too-filthy stairs.

— July 31, 2017

Something scurries under the seat across from me. I see it out of the corner of my eye. My first thought is that it’s a subway rat that’s managed to scam a free ride, as if the MTA is hard up enough already; now we’ve got rodents scamming the system.

Heretofor this ride had been the lap of luxury. The humans were piled up eight deep on the 4–5 platform but, sagely, I waited for the next train when everyone piled in. Work was over and though it was on the later side, I was in no hurry and decided that sardining with the lawyers and bankers wasn’t going to help me wind down.

They went off into the dark tunnel and I had the platform mostly to myself when the next express train arrived two minutes later. I got a spacious seat to myself in one of the two-seaters at the end. I cracked open Persuasion and settled in to reread some lulzical Long-eighteenth romantic comedy. A page or two in, I saw the thing sneak past people’s feet.

But then it disappeared. I scanned for it a reasonable amount of time — i.e. before people thought I was checking out their metatarsals. I went back to the book but was vigilant about plague-bearing rodents coming over to my side of the train.

I felt the grade change as we started uphill, and out rolled a solitary red grape into the open space by the end door. Apparently rats weren’t the issue, but rather freeloading vined berries. It rolled back down the length of the car, bouncing off people’s sandals and backpacks. No one really noticed, except the two children from down the other end, who were, not surprisingly, eating (hopefully clean) grapes from a Ziploc and laughing as the one they tossed rolled back down. They threw another while their mother watched and shook her head, defeated.

I laughed. If I had grapes, I’d be tempted to throw them too. Open lanes for grapes are rare.

— July 25, 2017

Dane A. Wisher is based in Brooklyn.