Yesterday's Subway Moment

Brought to you periodically when something actually happens.



It was early, 6:30 AM, at 168th Street on the A. A woman with a cane and a round, blue hat got on slowly, look right and left, hesitated, looked again then took three small steps to a seat. The train lurched forward just as she settled herself across from me, next to a tall, black woman. The car was nearly empty, just a few people scattered here and there. She was elderly, maybe 70 years, maybe not. She wasn’t your usual commuter. She was dressed well though, like she was going to a luncheon, maybe she was headed for a doctor’s appointment downtown. She held her purse under her left arm and her cane with her right hand. The train rattled and banged through the tunnel for a few minutes, then just before 145th it suddenly stopped. There was blast of air outside from the brakes. We waited. No announcement. The train moved a little, then stopped again. No word from the conductor.
“I’ve never liked to take the train.” She said to no one in particular.
“Me neither.” Replied the other woman. She had been reading a book, but now she turned to the older woman and smiled. “ I hate it when they stop like this.”
“Yes, they should say something.”
The train didn’t move.
“I’ve never liked to take the train.”
“Hmm, but how else you going to get around?”
“But they should say someth...”
The speaker overhead squalled and issued out a series of hisses as if to reply. There were no actual understandable words.
“Especially since that day, I mean, I didn’t like it before then, but now, I find it hard to do.”
“I know what you mean, I always try to bring something to read, something to keep my mind from it.”
“Oh, I can’t read on the train anymore, my eyes..”

The train began to move and soon it was at normal speed, the lights out in the tunnel flashing by. The noise kept me from hearing the rest of their conversation, but I could see the nods of agreement, the smiles, the older woman asking for something to be repeated, the younger one touching her hand. They were riding together now, passing the time, keeping their minds on each other and off whatever else.

At 34th Street, the woman with the cane rose unsteadily and exited.

“That was nice of you,” I said as the train started again, “to keep her company like that.” The woman smiled and looked at her book. The car doors opened at 14th Street and I got up to go.

“Hey, “she said,” You’ve got it wrong. I’m the one who really hates the train, she was comforting me.”

I waved.