Man on the Train

​Originally published 9/4/15

The 1 train approaches Harlem, rollicking along above ground for the moment. Four or five other riders keep me company. Fading sunlight streams in through the windows, spray-painted artwork complimenting tenement brick in the distance. The impossibly high placement of such painting holds the eye for a fleeting moment. One simply cannot see it all here, for as soon as the contemplation of how someone painted part of a building that has no visible access begins, the image is gone, along with everything else that was barely observed. Deep runs this mesh of humanity and its efforts.  

My thoughts are interrupted by a man who has quickly entered from the train car ahead, giving me something more direct to consider. He grabs a hold of the bars in front of me and begins swinging. The momentum of the train carries him through the air as he hangs loose, saying nothing, victory arms extended. Satisfied, it seems, he drops down and swaggers to the back of our train car, letting himself out through the door. Instead of continuing through the following door into the next train, however, he stops in that purgatory of space between trains. I watch him lean forward to the edge of the window in that room as we rock back and forth over the rail, my observation answered by an unearthly scream somewhat dampened by the doors that conceal him. He straightens up and moves on into the next train.  

Suddenly, I'm aware that he is in directly front of me, having re-entered the train unbeknownst to me. I look up to find him staring me in the eyes. In the second we connect, he leers at me with a crooked grin. Those eyes are the eyes of a wild animal with a sliver of human consciousness. I avert my eyes without flinching, avoiding further engagement. I notice his Pumas have seen better days, as have the stars that line his black t-shirt. He shuffles onward again with a wide gait required to keep loose jeans from falling past the hips. I hear no further screams.