IRT Stories

#3

Late rehearsal.  We traveled uptown together from Franklin Street.  A long welcomed ride in a warm subway car. It was good to sit down. We both found seats quickly and side-by-side we rumbled along, stop to stop.  From way downtown to uptown where we both lived blocks apart. Sitting easily and silently.

I notice things. I always have. I grew in this city and my instincts are keen to anything minutely out of sorts, a visual, a feeling, a sensation.

The train began to take on more passengers. Beside my friend sat a large creamy colored man. His coat was too small and wrong, a woman’s coat.  I sat facing ahead but feeling the slow moments and watching with an undetectable side view. My friend sat unaware.

The man’s large hands went inside his coat sleeves, each hand in the opposite sleeve creating a muff.  I stayed with myself, my sense, and watched with my sideways eyes how his one large had slipped beneath the forearm of his other. I watched it creep slowly across his lap fingers appearing by his hip and near to my friend. I could not help but smile. She was from Florida. She sat with her bag in the crook of her arm, a lady’s carry. I continued to watch as this man slipped fingers down to get to the clasp of her bag. 

I stood up with no haste and said easily, “Valerie, get up”. She was dazed from the hum of our ride and the physical exhaustion we both felt. She did rise. I moved in front of this man. Again, I was a bold young woman, born from years of hurt and rage. So slight but hard enough to believe I could manage whatever came my way. 

We stayed this way, she not understanding and waiting, me steady.

The creamy man got up and exited the train at the next stop. I explained and she laughed. I don’t believe anyone saw this private exchange. I exited at my stop, content.

© Leslie I Partridge Sachs