Overheard on the Subway

Almost every seat was taken on the D train when Jim, Charlie and I boarded it on Saturday afternoon. Almost every seat—there were two near a man in a long orange t-shirt and jeans. The man was past middle-age, bald, sort of stocky, and mumbling something incoherent.

For the past few times we have gone into New York City, Charlie has been taking the initiative and staking his claim to whatever seat he can find when we board the subway. No matter how small a space there is between two strangers, and however loaded down they may be with shopping bags or musical instruments, Charlie has been making room for himself, and he sat down in the seat perpendicular to the man. The man slid over and Jim sat down and the subway pulled out from the station, Charlie sitting with his hands under his legs and his eyes both looking to the side, as if to concentrate on the subway cars shifting from creaky balkiness to a faster pace, with mechanical clanking.

Once the subway was up to speed and moving along, Charlie talked without words and Jim and I answered as we are wont to. The man leaned forward in his seat.

The train slowed down and the man leaned forward more, pulled his head just a bit up. He had a bass voice and was talking. The train stopped. The man was still talking and looking over at us and I heard his sentence, but there were no consonants, there was sound and it was full of meaning and I found myself leaning right towards him.

“The door’s on that side,” I said and swept my right arm in a broad gesture to the right to where the doors were sliding open. “To the right, this side.” The man stood up, very slowly and, very slowly, walked towards the door. There were other passengers and his right leg was dragging. I heard another sentence, again with words not so distinct. “Hold the door, hold the door!” were the words I called as I moved right, too, and waved at the people by the door, one of whom suddenly stood up a bit straighter and leaned on the sliding door. The man was breathing hard and made his way out to the platform as if in slow motion.

Jim slid over by the window that Charlie was peering out of as the doors slid shut and I sat down. “How’d you know what he wanted?” asked Jim.

“I could hear it from what he said,” I said.

Charlie sat back in his seat. His hums were barely audible over the sound of the subway and I did my best to respond back as we rode to our destination—96st Street—and a long walk down the West Side beside the river.