The Subway

The two of us walked hastily down the stairs, descending into the bustling tunnels. I stepped into a small puddle at the foot of the stairs, quite by accident. In passing I noted how quickly we were walking. It was slightly remarkable, I thought, how fast many people ran down those steps to get out of the rain. And none of them, it was important to mention, so much as stumbled over the slick steps. But they were designed to prevent just that anyways, I concluded.

We walked over to the green line to wait for the subway train. I checked my phone for the third time since coming down the stairs. The game started in 20 minutes; it would be impossible to make it to the stadium on time.

I looked around anxiously. Why exactly we do this I do not know. But since as far as I can remember we do. Nothing I had seen on a television or read in a book seemed to indicate otherwise. It was simply the human condition to look about when we are impatient. Maybe it gives us an air of importance that we so humbly know we lack. Or maybe we are desperately trying to not look so preoccupied by the time.

In any event I, like many others there, looked around wondering just where the hell the train was. I saw a man a few yards to my right, kneeling near the edge of the platform. He was wearing brown corduroy pants and a gray sweatshirt. It was a perfectly fine outfit, of course. Though I did find it a little queer to be wearing corduroy so early in September. Still, New York is perpetually filled with fashion-less idiots, so I did not take too much stock in his clothing.

But I noticed he was leaning over a bag. It was a Pet Co. bag and seemed to have a perforated box of some sort inside. I assumed it some sort of animal newly purchased. Idly, I wondered what it could be. It did not seem to be making any noise, and was not agitating the box, and so I doubted it was a cat or dog.

But then the terrifying idea crossed my mind. It was precipitated by a few fairly obvious questions that, for one reason or another, I hadn't gotten around to asking. Why was he kneeling down next to the box? And why was he so close to the edge? When I happened to connect these two dangerous inquiries, his intention was immediately evident to me.

My palms began to sweat. My mind raced as I desperately tried to decide what I should do. It would be abhorrent of me to do nothing. How could I stand there, knowing full well that he would throw the poor animal in front of the incoming train? But I absolutely could not bring myself to stop him. I froze, eyes fixated on the man, and imagined the forthcoming gore.

I so desperately wanted some other person to intervene. It seemed terribly unfair that I was the only one at the platform who knew for what the man was preparing. As my eyebrows furrowed I cursed my perception and again deliberated on my inaction.

I looked in despair towards the little girl between me and the man in the corduroy. She was wearing a blue raincoat and a skirt with purple tights. Of course, she was with her father; the two of them were likely also going to the game. This time I groaned. Like most good citizens, I had not tried to put myself in this situation. I simply found myself as the only one able to do anything to prevent what would have a horrendous affect on this poor girl.

And then I heard the thunderous roar of the train. It was only seconds away, and in less than a minute I would be cleaning the gore from my fleece jacket. Shamed from my cowardice, I resigned to watching as the man readied the box. He grabbed it firmly, and raised onto his haunches, waiting expectantly for the train.

As the train zipped by I cringed at the expectant smack of the animal. The man lifted the box into his arms, and rested it on his chest. With a small grunt he stood up, carefully balancing his purchase. The train stopped and its doors opened. Impatiently, he waited for the passengers to step out and onto the platform. Then, eager to set the box back down, he entered the train.