SUBWAY POLITICS #1

by Marni Borek

There is a persimmon on the downtown 6. It's leaning, almost ripe, on the metal casing where a subway map and a "whiter teeth in 30 days" ad were once tenants. We are taken by the perfect contrast of soft orange sheathed in delicate, translucent skin against gray plastic bench. An image we are not used to under this dim, yellowing light. 

Here is the dilemma: We, with our chafed hands and heavy winter coats do not know what to do with it. Do we let it remain in its seat or extirpate it from our disenchanted kingdom? 

This is a delicate situation, I say to the boy with headphones across from me. He believes we should destroy it so we can save even just one stander from another moment of fighting speed. Leave it alone, a proud stander obstructing my view proclaims. It does not have my strength. He grips the pole tighter to prove himself. He is aware that he is not truly motionless and that with the slightest slowing of this car he will continue moving. But he is a risk-taker. 

Let's squish it hard, says six-year old girl squirming in grandmother's lap. She is at that precarious age where everything is about pushing limits. She's scabbed her knees one too many times to find compassion for foreign objects. Her grandmother does not know how to teach her this so she barricades her in soft wrinkled bosom. No,no. That is not nice, she scolds. 

There must be an ordained ruler among us somewhere. 

At Union Square, the persimmon claims more territory, lolling back and forth, rubbing up against abandoned sports pages.  The friction leaves behind a gray film that mars a once magnificent complexion. Incoming passengers are horrified by its blatant sexual overtures and hastily push towards to the doors leading to other cars. A few more episodes like this and any of us would be easily absolved of guilt over its demise. 

Maybe you can take it? Woman in Burberry coat with plaid lining asks grandmother holding down squirming six-year old in her lap. She only eats chocolate, grandmother giggles. The train door hisses and clamps shut. The proud stander grips the pole even tighter.  He wonders how much longer he can keep this up before moisture builds up on his palms.

Woman in Burberry coat with plaid lining is weighed down by too many problems to suggest an alternative plan. She has answered too many phone calls today and eaten more than her share at lunch. So she nudges boy with headphones who has stopped caring somewhere during CD Track 5. Please do something. You are closest, she points out. 

I am actually closer, but Woman in Burberry coat with plaid lining thinks he is the more likely protagonist in his baggy jeans and ski vest. He slumps forward and kicks at the toe of my sneakers. Take it on, girl, it'll never suspect you, he shouts over the beginning of Track 6. 

It is hard to be confident about such a mission when I am an alien here, a dedicated taxicab passenger, schooled only in pushing aside empty coffee cups and lost corporate ID cards left behind on vinyl seats. A persimmon requires greater attention to strategy. There are no obvious consequences for choosing violence over negotiation. 

We are nearing Prince Street now and my neighbors are getting restless. They are riding this train into Brooklyn and want resolution before the bridge. I am their only hope. 

I'll watch your back, the proud stander tells me. He is getting off at this stop, but offers only to take on a supporting role. When I pull myself up from my seat he follows close behind, leaving me no room to back out of the plan. I face the persimmon as the train slows into the station. Are you sure? I throw back at my co-conspirators. There cannot be any discord, as this has gone far enough. A unison Yes nudges me closer to the bench. 

The persimmon rolls forward as the doors open and I kneel quickly to surround it. There is no resistance to capture.  It has ridden long enough and made its point. Proud stander pulls me quickly to my feet and drags me onto the platform. Caught off guard by his aggressive move, I pull away quickly. He runs ahead to enjoy the sidewalks, where he is now accountable for his own pace. I am left with the smell of his damp fingers on my suede jacket, which I am forced to remove from my body when I reach street level because of the growing stench of perspiration. 

I trip over feet, bang against fire hydrants and rush through the last blinking Don’t Walk sign to bring my abducted someplace warm where I can interrogate it, pry from it the secrets that made people fearful to cross bridges. Here in my hands it lacks the power of its previous perch and the streets offer it no throne. It is growing cold and heavy in my hands, unprotected from the wind chill of this winter month and may not last through the night. It knows its’ skin will be bruised my next morning and what once captivated will now disgust. But in my hands it swears itself silent anyway unwilling to believe in the possibility of sympathy.

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