Fire Down Below

After flipping through the turnstile, I wandered onto the subway platform and put down The World's Heaviest Briefcase. A map attached to yellowed tiles looked like rainbow spaghetti -- so many tangled and color-coded subway lines that went across Manhattan, The Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn. Damn, this town was like its own small country. And one misstep and I would be hurtling under a river to the wrong borough.  

As hot as it was in the city, 34th Street felt like a Canadian lakefront road compared to The Gates of Hell down there. The fetid air stank just like that sickly sweet smell up in Penn Station above. Fluorescent lights revealed just enough soot, chips and holes to confirm that the Metropolitan Transportation Authority was low on cash for maintenance. 

A guy, a few years older and similarly suited up, came over to me. Wow, was he going to ask me out?

"Hey, do you know which train I take to Long Island City?"

Oh, guess not. And I thought Long Island was just an island. It was a city too?

"No, sorry," I said, shaking my head. 

He turned and looked down the tracks before pivoting back to me with more intensity. 

"C'mon, Man. Don't be one of those New Yorkers. Can't you help me out? I'm going to be late for a meeting!"

I nearly blushed. He thought I was a New Yorker? How awesome! His tantrum still annoyed me though.

"I just moved here last weekend, and this is my first time on the subway. So...sorry." I shrugged my shoulders to emphasize my newbie status. 

"Oh -- OK," he said, a little confused. I was about to suggest the spaghetti map or that LIRR when a light appeared down the tunnel. Then hot, stagnant air stirred, carrying the sound of an engine. This guy was on his own. 

A row of aluminum cars chugged in then spilled out its human contents. I was disappointed not to see any graffiti. After being jostled by commuters yet again, I stepped into a brightly lit car, relieved by the refrigerated air. 

My eyes zoomed around the car, vacuuming in visual data. But I didn't want to look like a tourist, so I stepped into the middle of the car and shifted my gaze downward to other riders' sneakers, wingtips, and sandals (gross). 

I did look up at the backlit placards right below the car ceiling promoting schools like Baruch and Pace. A benevolent looking "Dr. Zizmor" promised cures for all types of bad skin. 

I clutched the steel pole that ran ceiling to floor, ready to jump out at 14th Street. We had already made a couple stops. Anxiety pierced my chest as we pulled away from the 18th Street station. 14th had to be next. I couldn't miss it! 

I didn't. But exiting the station was perplexing. Which was better...the corner marked southeast or the one marked southwest? How do you even know? Sweat began running down my back, so I just bolted up the steps on the left before I drenched another shirt. 

Photo by Eddi Aguirre on Unsplash