All Aboard

Sitting on the train, I feel like a science project, a Petri dish prisoner—trapped inside a cell with protons, neutrons and electrons. It’s quiet except for technology and two women speaking at the end of the car, their conversation too faint to distinguish. But the train, the train speaks to me.

Grand Central, organized cell structures stuffed inside, a pregnant woman enters. Hundreds of eyes fix to her belly. The first sitting eyes to meet hers lose. An Asian man stands and the black woman sits next to me. A Hispanic woman nearby sneezes. A culture sandwich, I begin to culture. The conductor observes, takes notes, removes and adds more subatomic parts.

59th Street, his experiment slowly darkening. An Indian man and I bump toes. Our eyes meet to apologize and return downward quickly. The black marble-speckled floor causes me to wonder what times like this would be like if children were taught to talk to strangers. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think, I think. Instead, most of the cell’s occupants find ways to fight the silence—pretend sleep, MP3 player, newspaper, book, portable video device, laptop, portable gaming device, so on.

A panther in the corner reads the Koran. Kittens next to him close their eyes. A tall, slender cougar stands near the door wearing four-inch heels and a short, tight skirt. Her golden hair waves in the air-conditioned wind. It’s 90 degrees outside but a bit nippy inside the cell. For a moment I’m no longer trapped. My vision blurs. I’m somewhere free—free inside of her … until my eyes focus again.

A child is holding something in a McDonald’s bag and I smell syrup. I long for the days when Mom made waffles for breakfast. A gold wrist watch flashes in the dim light. The man’s diamond studs overtake the watch, and I notice his attire. Here’s a guy that can’t let go of his Ecko, I think, 86th Street.

My skin tightens, my hair is on end, and I’m standing now, encircled by five, no six, wait, seven people that are actually touching me. Now I’m a culture donut, I think. I hear dialogue. It’s rap. I hear someone’s music. I hear religious banter. People talk to themselves, to no one, to everyone, but rarely to someone.

125th Street, I emerge from the snake’s underbelly and the carbon train is broken. I collide with hundreds of electrons on my walk home. Finally, I can rest in my personal nucleus. Soon, a family will complete my cell and the experiment will be complete. Well, until the conductor observes, takes notes, and removes and adds more subatomic parts.