Subway Runs

"Fiction is an act of revenge." -- John Hawkes


I stand in the Times Square subway station during rush hour on a Friday afternoon. It's far more packed than usual because, "after an earlier incident," the N train has just resumed service to Queens. When a train finally arrives, I wedge myself into the last car, find a place to stand, and stare daggers down at the pack of giggly, perfectly healthy teenagers who dare to deprive tired, older commuters of valuable seat space. (What? It's my favorite subway hobby.) The teens disembark at 57th Street, leaving bench space for four, and I surreptitiously glance around to check whether one of my adjacent riders needs one of those seats more than I do. The standing-room-only crowdmembers are all close to my age, though, and they're all surveying me and each other exactly as I'm surveying them.

The decision is taken from us when a young, morbidly obese man with a briefcase elbows his way into our car. He takes a seat -- two seats, actually -- and places his briefcase on the bench next to him. A meager foot of bench space remains between the end of the man's briefcase and the handrail next to the subway doors. I long to yell at the seat hoarder for his rudeness, yearn to point out that putting one's crap on subway seats is illegal, but I hold my tongue.

At Fifth Avenue, an elderly woman with several large shopping bags gets on the train. She eyes the minuscule space between the briefcase and the rail, eyes Seat Hoarder, catches his eye.

"Excuse me, but can you please move your briefcase?" she asks in a sweet old-lady voice, and Seat Hoarder gives a histrionic groan.

"Look lady, I'm tired, I've had a long week, I can't deal with this right now. The nerve of some people."

No one says a word; I think we're all too shocked.

Seat Hoarder is still muttering to himself when we reach Lexington Avenue and a large middle-aged man with crutches and a knee brace boards the train. Knee Brace eyes the minuscule space between the briefcase and the rail, eyes Seat Hoarder, shrugs, and sits. He is half-sitting on the briefcase, but Seat Hoarder still won't move it. The train moves through the tunnel into Queens as the two men cast subtle glances of loathing at one another.

A few moments after the train emerges from the tunnel into daylight, Knee Brace's cell phone rings. He answers it, then after a normal greeting, he says, "Yeah, I'm fine," entirely too loudly. "I had to take a few painkillers in the office, but I feel okay."

Knee Brace pauses again, then he looks up at me... and winks. "But man," he continues into the cell phone, "I had the runs today! Yeah, diarrhea! The runs! I had them so badly, I must have gone about five times. I'm still sick to my stomach... yeah, I do, hopefully I can hold it in until I get home."

Seat Hoarder moved that briefcase of his so quickly that he nearly unseated Knee Brace in the process.