Stuck

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Stuck

It was 5:08 in the afternoon and if Shannon hurried she would make it downtown on

time. The next three minutes were spent dipping and weaving through hoards of people on the New York City sidewalks. Most of the men and women were in business attire like her, but the occasional homeless man in loose-­‐fitting rags and construction workers in sweaty tee shirts were a reminder that not everyone earned their living under fluorescent lights.

Her beige pumps were not making running easy and her pencil skirt hindered her even further. Construction on the subway line had been making her late all week and Shannon was determined to break the habit immediately, and with as few sweat stains as possible.

At 5:11 she hovered at the top of the stairway leading down into the subway. For a

brief second she felt the humidity rolling up from the depths of the underground. There was a distinct smell of sweat and urine and Shannon thought about the pimples this mixture would most likely cause to sprout up on her nose and chin. She ran down the stairs two at a time and by the time she reached the bottom she was astonished to have not twisted an ankle. The low rumblings of the train reaching the track began to echo around the tunnel. Shannon swiped her Metrocard and shimmied through the turnstile in one smooth motion, doing her best not to touch and surfaces with her hands—it was flu season after all.

Standing at the edge of the platform the subway train greeted her, right on time.

After letting several people got off the train, Shannon stepped on, pushing against the rush hour crowds. There was only standing room and the train grew more and more crowded.

She held onto the pole in the middle of the car with the inside of her elbow and clasped her hands in front of her. People continued to squeeze around her until the dinging of the bell

© Alison Coolidge 2015

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the ushered car doors closed, denying any additional passengers. Shannon smiled; in a mere twenty minutes she would make it from the Upper West Side to the West Village where she was meeting Alex. The thought of being just one train ride away made her stomach flutter and she could not stop the smile spreading over her face. Looking down to conceal it, she noticed she was standing in a puddle. She looked up again, trying to avert her mind from the mysterious liquid now coating the bottom of her shoes. Was it pee?

Soda? Bile? All of the above?

Her mind wandered to Alex in an attempt to distract herself from the disease and grime filled train. He was a painter and had dropped out of high school before going back to a fine arts college. He moved out of his parents’ house when he was sixteen and had spent six months somewhere in Canada. He was smart and kind and had thoughtful, green eyes.

Shannon liked the way the stubble on his cheeks and chin scratched her lips. His smile made her melt and feel as helpless as a child. He looked at her like there was something he knew about her that even she wasn’t aware of yet.

The train dutifully made its stops while Shannon dreamed. Every station provided a

filtering in and out of people, but the car maintained its large crowd. Just three stops from hers, the car became so packed that people were not only clamoring against each other with every lurch of the train, but exchanging exhalations and far too much eye contact.

Suddenly, the sound of screeching tracks filled the car. Shannon looked out of one of the windows to her left. This is wrong, she thought. They were still in the tunnel, not at a station. The train came to a halt and the lights flickered.

“Folks,” the scratchy speaker system came to life, “this is— conduc—cchhhh—

diffic—cchhh—track—hissss—cchhh—pretty soon.”

© Alison Coolidge 2015

3 A collective groan rippled through the car. Shannon’s expression dropped. No, no,

no, no! She thought. Did he say soon? What did he SAY? Shannon glanced around to the other passengers, desperate for an interpretation of the decrepit speaker system. Nothing. Her mind was racing and her heart started to pound. Beads of sweat began popping up along her light-­‐brown hairline. She took a deep, shakey breath and tried to collect herself. The car smelled like Indian food and diapers. She squeezed her mouth shut and tried to breathe as shallowly as possible.

Looking around Shannon began to actually notice the people around her for the first

time under the dim florescent lights. A tired looking mother was holding a squirming, whimpering toddler (the source of the puddle!) on her lap while keeping a hand on two Whole Foods bags on the floor beneath her seat. She’s putting her FOOD on the FLOOR. Terrible mother.

Next to them, a man who looked like a construction worker in blue jeans and a dirty white undershirt held a yellow hard hat in his lap. He was listening to an iPod, but one of the earbuds had fallen out and sat on his shoulder, only he didn’t notice because he was fast asleep, mouth sagging open. Shannon’s eye twitched once she spotted a comically large drop of saliva hung from his mouth—no! A LUGEY? Is a real-­‐life-­‐lugey ACTUALLY hanging from that man’s mouth? Oh God, get me out of here!

Across from the lugey sat an old woman, with an empty, staring expression. She clutched a large pocket book to her chest. Her calmness and general lack of agitation made Shannon think that she had been trapped on the subway so many times she had grown immune to the terror. Her placidity aggravated Shannon.

© Alison Coolidge 2015

4 Next to the old woman was a man who looked to be in his early thirties and by far

the cleanest of the passengers. He was wearing an impressive tan suite with a checkered shirt and navy blue tie. The sunglasses he was wearing looked very expensive, which is probably why he didn’t bother to take them off in the dark underground. He sat with his legs spread out and leaning forward, tapping away on his iPhone. He took up two seats with this position, despite how crowded the train was. His general air, tinged with cologne, made Shannon think this was a man who worked with huge sums of money and bragged about his alcohol consumption, regardless of having left college at least a decade ago. Pig. Shannon’s attention shifted back to herself. The stomach flutters were no longer excitement of seeing Alex, but the feeling preceding a panic attack. She abhorred being trapped, and what more it was in disgusting proximity to these people. Their coughs and sneezes made her flinch. She was consumed by the thought of the microbes finding their way into her body; making a home in her lungs or resting in her gut before making her spew her lunch. Her heartbeat gained speed again and she felt droplets of sweat rolling down her back—a nauseating tickle.

How long have I even been here? Five minutes? Fifteen? She tried grasping blindly into her purse for her phone to see the time, but elbowed and angry, stout woman and returned her elbow to around the pole, nudging someone else in the process. What TIME is it? Not being able to see how much time had passed made the wait feel exponentially longer.

Numbers on the clock seemed meaningless now. Sweat, mystery fluids, coughs, and disease were all there was.

Shannon fidgeted to the dismay of the angry, stout woman (probably breathing viruses onto me) and a man in a grey suit, somehow trying to read a newspaper, his greasy

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hotdog fingers smudging the print. She nearly slipped on the mystery liquid coating the floor, and one of her hands instinctively grabbed the pole to steady herself. She retracted it in disgust. She would have to scrub away the microscopic monsters that now coated her hands, her face, eyes, lungs, mouth.

Shannon’s breathing was audible now. She felt nauseous and was coated in a film of sweat. She felt eyes beginning to linger on her. She needed to be out. To feel the autumn air again. To be clean. And with Alex. There was a ringing in her ears. Shannon was counting breaths, not seconds. Gags, not minutes.

CCCHHHH! Shannon nearly leapt out of her skin. “Hey folks—ccchhhhh—hisssss— now—Thank—cchhh.” The train squealed and lurched. Shannon was not as happy as she was shocked. Snapping out of her inner terror, she realized, movement! Sounds of screeching metal and working machinery filled the subway car. Finally the train picked up speed and lights in the tunnel flashed by. Her breathing deepened, thoughts slowed.

Shannon felt the car heave to a stop and was jostled back fully back to reality. The bell dinged and Shannon jumped off the train two stops early—not even caring about rubbing every person she squeezed past. She would walk the rest of the way to the bar.

Walk. And breathe.

As Shannon ascended the steps to the sidewalk a cool gust floated down to welcome her back to life. She inhaled and the smell of pretzels and chestnuts enlivened her. In the orange light she got her bearings again, and trekked with powerful strides that surprised her.

Ten minutes later stepped through a shining oak doorway. Sweat dried and filth on her hands (momentarily) forgotten. Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” electrified both Shannon

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and the atmosphere. She looked around and at the far end of the bar she met a pair of green, thoughtful eyes and dimples that beckoned her over. Alex raised a glass of dark beer and smiled. Cheers.

© Alison Coolidge 2015