Girl on the Train

The crowded subway pulled into Union Square station to absorb more grumpy and impatient zombies.

I stood mushed between one guy lost in a game of Candy Crush on his phone and another watching wrestling videos on a tablet when a young woman shimmied through the crowd and managed to make room beside me. She was only about five foot two and could barely reach the bar above our heads. She was wearing short shorts, knee-high socks, and an oversized sweatshirt. Lots of jewelry, too. I counted ten rings on the hand grasping the pole. Beneath a tangle of bracelets, a swirly calligraphic tattoo circled her wrist.

Despite a few people standing between them, she began muttering to a guy who had boarded the train behind her— a massive guy with a goatee and long leather coat who stood against the doors stoically like a bouncer, as if he was waiting to check the guest list at the next stop. When he didn't respond to her, the girl mumbled louder—if there is such a thing as a loud mumble, maybe slurred and sloppy is a better way to put it. The guy looked at her, put a finger to his lips, and let out a slow and calming shhh.

The girl spun around on her tiptoes and began mumbling over her shoulder to someone behind her — it was hard to tell who since everyone ignored her equally. As she turned back around, I caught the smell of alcohol-infused sweat wafting from her pores. She got quiet and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, stretching it as far as the fabric would allow. Head down, barely holding the bar with her fingertips, she bumped and leaned into me as the train lurched in and out of each station stop. After the last stop in Manhattan, the train picked up speed under the East River toward Brooklyn.

The train settled into a steady jostling rhythm like a Johnny Cash song, and the girl weaved and bumped, slightly out of sync with it. As my arm held the pole above us, the girl nuzzled her head into space below my armpit. I shuffled away as much as possible, though there was little room to move. She straightened up, but only momentarily. Soon she nuzzled again, and again I leaned away. "Ladies and gentlemen, a crowded subway train is no excuse for sexual misconduct . . ." as the public service announcement on the P.A. system had just announced.

Finally, she looked up at me, her false eyelashes clinging to her eyelids for dear life. "Can I lean on you?" she said.

"You already are," I wanted to say, but I just gave her an awkward smile.

"I'm so wasted," she said through lipstick-stained teeth.

She certainly was.

"Are you on your way home?" I asked. It was only 6 P.M., but she looked like someone who'd been out since the night before and was taking a subway ride of shame.

"No, I'm going to Bushwick," she said.

I had a lot of questions: What's in Bushwick? Was she going alone? Didn't she think she was better off going home to bed?

"I'll be okay," she said. "I just need to lie down. Can I lean on you?"

The packed car forced everyone to lean on everyone else, anyway, so I didn't see the harm, but the train pulled into the next station before I could answer her.

"This is my stop," I said

As I squeezed around her, she tugged on my coat sleeve —a soft, comfortable fiberfill coat that makes an excellent pillow. I use it that way myself from time to time.

"Be careful out there," I said.

She looked sad to see her pillow go.

Stepping out the door onto the platform, I passed a guy boarding the train wearing a coat much like mine, only puffier — a sitting duck in a pillow suit. 

I was tempted to get back on the train to see what happened next, but no, I waste enough time as it is.