Contact Juan Colon Basic Rhyme Poems Alternative Poem Formats Short Story Home Page
The Subway Sub-Culture
The train pulls up and John breathes in heavy, taking in the mix of diesel, piss, shit, grease, and road kill on tracks.
An article on meditation a long time ago inspired the deep breaths. He doesn’t remember anything further from the article, but it is the only preparation he has.
Entering, John is uncertain if he should stand and hold a pole that has been molested by countless unwashed hands after relieving their bowels, bladder, and noses;
or sit on seats that serve as beds for the many homeless whose odor is not shielded by their insulation of newspaper and trash bags.
Seats are rare so he decides to sit. The computerized voice tells him the next stop, Fordham rd.
The ding signals closing of the doors, and purrs turns to roars down the track.
He looks around at a sea of phone watching zombies. At one end, a box of snacks stands in front of a boy who tugs at his sagging jeans as
he elegantly spills his sale’s speech in both English and Spanish.
A Spanish old lady raises her hand and exchanges a dollar for Oreos.
The dollar had its own compartment in the purse she clutches in her lap, well prepared John thinks.
The boy wraps the dollar around a huge wad of bills and stuffs it in his front pocket.
The boy then makes his rounds, shoving the box in the blank faces of people who continue to ignore him and watch their phones.
John forces a smile and shakes his head when the box is thrusted in his face.
The hustle never stops, John thinks. The sketch artistes, the dancing kids, the singers, the pianist, it never ends.
John’s slow rise up the corporate ladder lends for a flexible work schedule.
That is to mean he makes himself available to superiors, sacrificing sleep and home responsibilities, if any.
There are times he is going in when drunken, disoriented club goers are trying to get home,
and there are times he leaves late enough to witness the most horrific scenes.
The train is the most efficient and quickest mode of transportation, but it comes at a price.
A large dark skin man, familiar to John, makes his appearance through the connecting car doors.
He pushes through, eyeing everyone and their belongings, like a wolf seeking out the weakest of lambs.
Yes, of course, and the most common hustlers, the thieves.
The ones with no talent, no intelligence, and no care in the world. Why is this idiot riding the same train at the same time?
John has the urge of saying his thoughts out load, but calmly turns his head.
As he turns his head, John’s mind stubbornly reflects on a reoccurring memory.
When John was 15 he witnessed an incident while riding the subway home from school.
One guy was staring at a female’s butt not knowing the guy in front of her was her boyfriend.
The boyfriend approached the guy and a slight altercation ensued and quickly stopped.
After the argument the guy stood calmly by the train doors as the couple held the center pole, looking away from the guy.
All was normal as the trained stopped and passengers entered and exited.
Until the doors were about to close. At that moment the guy took a blade out and sliced the other’s neck.
The assailant disappeared as the doors closed and no one uttered a word. Young John watched in complete shock.
The blood shooting out between the victim’s fingers, like a fully opened fire hydrant meeting a double-opened can.
John remembers the piercing screams from the girl, the plea for help.
He remembers looking around and everyone in the cab had their heads turned away from the scene.
No one cared to watch, but John couldn’t stop himself from watching. No more than two minutes past before the next stopped arrived,
but it was an eternity for the couple, and John. Help was dispatched to that next stop by the train conductor.
And John ran home with yet another story to tell.
Not much has changed, John thinks. Today, the only difference is the cell phones.
Someone in the crowd will have the audacity to record it and post it on social media.
The train stops and it fills up quickly. Personal space is violated as people come together in a public orgy.
A man squeezes in the 2 feet of space that is available next to John. His thigh and torso is pressed up against him.
John closes his eyes and breathes to relax. The man’s clothes smell like they were washed and left to dry in a bundle somewhere.
John hates the smell more than if the man never bothered washing the clothes at all. Deep Breaths is no longer an option.
There was a time when John loved the train. He and his friends tagging every available space with spray cans.
They would ride the outside of the train doors, train surfing they called it. John even loved the crowded train.
He would make sure he was next to a well-endowed female and pray that the crowding and nudging will reward him with a feel.
He was never robbed or beaten, it was just fun. Sure, he participated in a few beatings of others, but that was rare and he and his friends never went too far.
John even used the subway ride as motivation when he obtained his employment among his new peers of white collar workers.
A reminder of where he came from; of the daily struggle that must continue in order to obtain goals.
But along the many years of riding the subway, the fond memories have faded to the back, and now all he has is a lingering sense of not belonging.
The dark skin man pushes through a young kid on his phone that was taking too much space.
The kid fumbles the phone and his distorted face shows his frustration.
But when he sees the man’s size, he opts for turning of the head.
The man’s gaze is unquestionably suspicious, even if you have never seen him in action, like a baby’s instinctive reaction to a menacing, salivating dog.
John’s thoughts continue. There are only the cattle and the wolves here. The strong and the weak. The weak know their place.
Occasionally, two wolves meet, and the stronger wins. That is the culture of the subway.
John is deep in thought and didn’t noticed that the large dark skin man was standing over him now.
It was only days ago that John witness this man take a purse from an old lady.
She was not very well prepared. Her purse laid out on her side with zipper opened, welcoming the violation that followed.
She didn’t notice until he had some distance from her and was close to the connecting car doors.
The soft, nervous voice was heard by most; it was heard by John and it was heard by the dark skin man.
“My purse”, she mumbled, with eyes watering and jaw shivering. The dark skin man turns and stares at the old lady.
It’s the stare that parents give their children to behave in public, and he was able to put her in her place before another word could be uttered.
He disappeared through the doors as he has done before.
The old lady was stupid, John thinks. She allowed the incident. You have to be at high alert here.
John wanted to help, but helping someone that does not help themselves is foolish. She should have been better prepared.
But John has grown tired of the man. And today the man chose to stand right in front of John while seeking out his next victim.
John’s anger is rising. He no longer wishes to remain idle and watch yet another incident that will haunt his dreams at night.
Not today, John says himself. Today John has decided that two wolves will meet and he starts preparing himself for the encounter.
As the dark skin man scans the train, so does John. John will strike when the time is right.
If he decides to take the Spanish lady’s purse, he will trip and beat on him.
If he decides to pick the young boys pocket, he will sneak up behind him and place a choke hold on him.
John is even prepared to defend the foul-smelling man that sits beside him with a swift kick to the dark skin man’s balls.
While john waits in full alert status, the dark skin man moves swiftly to the side.
He is now standing beside John, one hand holding the pole and his back against the car doors.
John is convinced he will be making a move on the Hispanic lady’s purse and then try to run out the cab when the doors open.
He will have to trip him on his way out to gain an advantage to the larger man.
John’s nervous system is pumping maximum amount of blood through his body as he sits and wait.
As the train is stopping, John leans over on his seat, watching the man through the corner of his eye.
When the dark skin man reacts, John tries to respond but, something happens. There is a flashing of white.
There is a sense of floating, like being an astronaut in space. John is unsure what is happening except to recall a time when something like this happened.
He was boxing, the opponent was ducking his punches and John was so focused on hitting his head that he never saw the overhand right.
He woke up later, being told the story of how he was knocked out.
When John comes out of his daze, he is on the ground, gripping his jacket pocket that has his wallet and, presently, also has the dark skin man’s hands in them.
John tries getting up, but is pushed downed and then dragged out the train.
“Just give me the fucking wallet before you get seriously hurt”, the man says in a heavy accent.
“Hell nah, you mother...” John sees the punch this time, but was still not able to weave out the way.
A warm feeling surrounds the left side of his face where both punches landed. No pain, just heat, like someone put a heated pad on his face.
He lets go of the death grip he had of the wallet and tries to grab the man’s feet. The man simply lifts his leg and breaks the weak grip that John had on it.
He then kicks John with the same leg in his stomach. John is breathless and immobile as the man walks away.
John looks at all the bodies that are in the area, walking, watching, and turning their heads.