Uptown
by Chris Warner

I’m heading uptown on the One train when a big guy comes through the door that connects with the car ahead of us. He seems jovial. As he sheds his leather jacket he says to this older woman near the car door, “You dropped something!”

The woman grips her purse tightly, but otherwise doesn’t flinch.

“Hey!” the guy says, yelling now. “You dropped something!”

Just when I’m wondering whether or not to step in––I’m not a hero, but I do live here ––the guy makes a quarter appear from somewhere near the lady’s seat. He holds the coin up and smiles, nodding in self-appreciation. No one gives him any recognition whatsoever.

The guy moves toward the next car. “Motherfuckers are tight,” he says, shaking his head. “Tight.”

Around 86th, a mariachi band boards and starts strumming and singing away, earnest stuff about el dolor and mi corazón. I can’t remember much Spanish: either this guy’s in love, or he has angina. I make a mental note to write that down when I get home, because I think it’s funny. A young Latin guy across from me in a business suit smiles at the music, with some irony, I think. No one looks up. The singer passes the hat, gathers a couple of bucks from people who avoid looking at him, and gets off by 103rd.

At 110th, the mayor gets on, followed by a slew of really big guys in dark suits and sunglasses, which seem unnecessary to me, but I neglect to tell them as much. His Honor introduces himself and talks about new job programs and improving the schools and his stance against drugs. A teenager in a puffy jacket nods in rhythm as the mayor speaks. He’s listening to a CD player. Someone at the end of the car clears his throat. No one makes eye contact. At 125th, the mayor nods to his constituents, then exits onto the platform. I can’t hear him, but as the train pulls away he turns to his bodyguards and mouths the words “Tight motherfuckers.”

An old guy who gets on at 125th sits down next to me. Once the train’s rolling, he asks me for the time. I tell him, and in looking at him realize he’s Albert Einstein. I look at him again. It’s definitely Einstein. I try to make some joke about the relevance of him asking me the time. He smiles at me, kindly, tightens his scarf, and says he has to go. He’s teaching at CCNY. I look around the car and raise my hands, trying to call attention to us, but no one bats an eye.

“See you later, Einstein!”

The way I say it, it sounds like an insult.

At 145th, a guy wearing a dashiki stands next to me, but I realize it’s not technically a dashiki because those are African and this guy is Gandhi.

“What are you doing on the One train?” is all I can think to ask him. He shrugs in that polite way he does, and mentions some things about life, and about peace, and how we all have a duty to seize control of our own destinies––although I’m paraphrasing and could be making up that last part––and then he shakes my hand in two of his and strides off the train. I scan the passengers around me and announce, “That was Gandhi, people. Hello? Anyone?” They all avoid my eyes.

I slump in my seat and gaze out the window as we cross the Broadway Bridge. The section of the Harlem River below is steel gray. It takes a second to register the three ships in full sail cruising down the river. I start tapping the window in frantic recognition.

I yell to anyone who will listen, “It’s the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria!” At the bow of the front ship I see a guy in billowy clothes and a funky-looking hat, and I know it’s Christopher Columbus. Reflexively, I wave as the fleet moves downriver.

I think he sees me, but he doesn’t make eye contact.

© 2007 prickofthespindle.com