Bodies on the Train

A Puerto Rican man on A train.  I know he’s Puerto Rican because of the flag on his kerchief.  It’s Saturday night, late into the night.  Everyone is tired but no one has thrown up on the train yet. It’s a ritual on Saturday nights on the A train. 

My arms are sticky from making drinks all night for other people.  I could taste all the margaritas I made rise up in my throat. There’s a roll of cash hidden in my pants pocket.  I’m worried about the walk home after I get off the train.  Anything can jump out at you at night in Brooklyn. 

The Puerto Rican glares at another man who sits ten feet away from him.

“Oh no you di’nt! Oh hell no and am I gonna let nobody talk to me like that. Come get in my face. Get in my face. Say it to my face. Why you just standin there? Be a man. Ain’t you man? Ain’t you got the balls to talk shit? Why you all the way over there? You wanna get in my face? I oughtta go up and pop you, son. But I won’t. I’m on this train, cuz I gotta go work, cuz nobody gives me nuthin. Nobody ain’t done nothing for me, son. But I get up and I go to work. That’s my manhood.”

On the train, no one has a name.  We are all bodies.  No one is sure where to look.  The man to whom the Puerto Rican man is talking is staring straight ahead, pretending he can’t hear. 

The women on either side of the two men shift uncomfortably.  The worrying of the women hangs like a cloud in the subway car.  They are not in their bodies.  They are somewhere else, already minutes from now or countless days in the past.  They stand next to and in front of themselves, looking at nothing, remembering. The ghosts of other women crowd around them.  They have been touched, flashed, harassed, violated.

Standing up and holding on to a rail in front of the Puerto Rican is a girl wearing black tights that have words written in white up and down her legs.

Peace. Love. Peace. Love. Peace. Love.

“You wanna come at me? I’ll pop you son! You want to come start some shit? Yeah? Well come finish it! Don’t let nobody talk to me like that. That’s my manhood. Wha happen? Cat ate your tongue? Yeah, I thought so!”

An obese man standing a few people away from the Puerto Rican grabs his crotch. “What ‘bout my manhood? Why don’t you shut up? You botherin’ my manhood.”

The men around the Puerto Rican start to laugh. The train doors open. The train car empties.

I walk behind the girl who has words written up and down her legs.

Peace. Love. Peace. Love. Peace. Love.