I’m an exhausted, middle aged, red headed woman who is being squished between two people. One guy thumbs through a stack of text books; the other – roughly thirty, tall, with glasses and a pronounced swallow – appears to be part of a religious order.
The subway lurches. It descends into a black tunnel, under the city, garishly loud. Its brakes squeak and squeal. Paint jumps off the subway car’s walls as if defacing the graffiti. A community college promises a new career. Unprotected sex kills. My husband thinks I’m at work. He doesn’t know I’ve lost my job and I don’t want him to find out. I clutch my oversized gold bag. It contains all my money and credit cards, some which are in my name and some which aren’t.
The train is impregnated like a sausage casing, as it rattles into a station. Someone long ago gave up on cleaning the station’s stained yellowing tiles. Doors open. Some exit. Most don’t. More squeeze in. Lights flicker. Someone breaks wind. Everyone avoids eye contact. The sleek silver tube leaves the station. The passing stations take on a strobe light effect …
I live north of the city. I’m sick of the commute, which I continue to do longer than is necessary. I’m sick of keeping up with my underwater mortgage. I’m sick of disrespectful kids, particularly my own. I won’t tell you which suburb I live in because I’m probably not going back.
We remain underground for a few more stops, until we eventually burst into the blinding sunlight, south of the city. I reach my final destination. My research is thorough. I walk a few blocks to Enterprise and I rent a car. I head for the turnpike, traveling west toward the empty part of the state before eventually crossing into the even emptier part of New York. The sun is shining and everything is new. I know no one. I pull over and throw my Iphone - contacts and all - from a bridge high over the Hudson River. I’ll later buy a replacement, probably an android, at a nondescript mall. Pretty soon, I’ll begin collecting new contacts. I’ll abandon my car near Alamo before renting another car under another name.
Don’t think poorly of me for abandoning my family. It beats the alternative. I haven’t killed anyone… yet.
I continue southwest until I get lost in the empty spaces of a third faraway state. Something doesn’t feel right and I wonder if I’ve finally lost it. I should be home for dinner, sometime, tomorrow. I’ll walk in the front door and say, “Honey I’m home.”
My new husband will ask, “How was your day?”
I’ll answer, “Better than some. Not as good as others. You wouldn’t believe what happened.”
My new husband doesn’t answer: I’m snapped out of it by the subway lurching into a complete stop. The doors slide open. Leaving five seconds for me to decide whether to stay or go. I lean forward: but I have nowhere to go.
The subway is back in motion. Its movement – the fact its stops are predictable - gives my life structure. It slows down again as it approaches the final stop. It’s the third time I’ve been here today. The workers walk out onto the platform, and go from front to back. Occasionally, someone will glance at me like they know everything about me they need to. I wait. They probably assume I’m homeless. I’m not. The doors close back up and I’m trapped inside again, re-experiencing the binging and purging of another subway ride.
After a few more subway rides, I’ll get off and wander the city again aimlessly. I’ll pick up a little something to add to the dinner, while I’m out. I’ll be home by five, pretend the day has been productive, as I’ll make a special dinner for my husband and kids. I’ll watch intently as my family enjoys my cooking. They’ll soon be in a dead sleep and tomorrow the world will wake up to anew, and I’ll once more use the subway to escape.
The subway lurches. It descends into a black tunnel, under the city, garishly loud. Its brakes squeak and squeal. Paint jumps off the subway car’s walls as if defacing the graffiti. A community college promises a new career. Unprotected sex kills. My husband thinks I’m at work. He doesn’t know I’ve lost my job and I don’t want him to find out. I clutch my oversized gold bag. It contains all my money and credit cards, some which are in my name and some which aren’t.
The train is impregnated like a sausage casing, as it rattles into a station. Someone long ago gave up on cleaning the station’s stained yellowing tiles. Doors open. Some exit. Most don’t. More squeeze in. Lights flicker. Someone breaks wind. Everyone avoids eye contact. The sleek silver tube leaves the station. The passing stations take on a strobe light effect …
I live north of the city. I’m sick of the commute, which I continue to do longer than is necessary. I’m sick of keeping up with my underwater mortgage. I’m sick of disrespectful kids, particularly my own. I won’t tell you which suburb I live in because I’m probably not going back.
We remain underground for a few more stops, until we eventually burst into the blinding sunlight, south of the city. I reach my final destination. My research is thorough. I walk a few blocks to Enterprise and I rent a car. I head for the turnpike, traveling west toward the empty part of the state before eventually crossing into the even emptier part of New York. The sun is shining and everything is new. I know no one. I pull over and throw my Iphone - contacts and all - from a bridge high over the Hudson River. I’ll later buy a replacement, probably an android, at a nondescript mall. Pretty soon, I’ll begin collecting new contacts. I’ll abandon my car near Alamo before renting another car under another name.
Don’t think poorly of me for abandoning my family. It beats the alternative. I haven’t killed anyone… yet.
I continue southwest until I get lost in the empty spaces of a third faraway state. Something doesn’t feel right and I wonder if I’ve finally lost it. I should be home for dinner, sometime, tomorrow. I’ll walk in the front door and say, “Honey I’m home.”
My new husband will ask, “How was your day?”
I’ll answer, “Better than some. Not as good as others. You wouldn’t believe what happened.”
My new husband doesn’t answer: I’m snapped out of it by the subway lurching into a complete stop. The doors slide open. Leaving five seconds for me to decide whether to stay or go. I lean forward: but I have nowhere to go.
The subway is back in motion. Its movement – the fact its stops are predictable - gives my life structure. It slows down again as it approaches the final stop. It’s the third time I’ve been here today. The workers walk out onto the platform, and go from front to back. Occasionally, someone will glance at me like they know everything about me they need to. I wait. They probably assume I’m homeless. I’m not. The doors close back up and I’m trapped inside again, re-experiencing the binging and purging of another subway ride.
After a few more subway rides, I’ll get off and wander the city again aimlessly. I’ll pick up a little something to add to the dinner, while I’m out. I’ll be home by five, pretend the day has been productive, as I’ll make a special dinner for my husband and kids. I’ll watch intently as my family enjoys my cooking. They’ll soon be in a dead sleep and tomorrow the world will wake up to anew, and I’ll once more use the subway to escape.
