Underneath the asphalt and cement, I wait for a lone downtown train to hurry it’s way through the tunnels. Outside and above the marked up stairs and rickety entrance sleeps a quiet Fordham Road in the Bronx. Below in the subway underbelly however, in the tiled oven that is this platform, I sit awake. My eyes are strained, the white hot lights burn on into the subterranean night providing no quiet darkness to lull the misfortunate bum here to sleep. The incessant hum and groan of a city attempting to rest, the clank and rattle of pipes, and the sweat adorning my forehead are the only company to welcome me. All the gloomy dirty tiles, scuffed up and chipped away. Losing their original bathroom whiteness, their shiny heavenly sheen. Decades ago this place could have welcomed both aristocrat and vagabond alike. A former hot spot to Ginsbergs and Kerouacs. Now the tiles decay each day amongst the old blue pillars, the individual Atlases that hold up the station ceiling and the world. A purple mosaic reads the address in white lettering, Fordham Road, a grotesque funerary purple it is, the brash banner to this dim hall that never truly finds sleep. It is just a stop for ramshackle trains, electric metallic snakes though they are, weaving and darting through the underground mazes. Shrieking as their wheels wail on the pained tracks. I await their signals in the vast corridors and caverns of the subway but they are yet here. Still far off, lurching and twisting in the underground labyrinth or perhaps not even moving, still peacefully sitting at a terminal somewhere under the stars, anticipating orders to shoot into the tunnels again to awaken the vagrants and sleepless travelers such as myself.
Legs outstretched onto the worn platform, an aged wooden bench becomes my unpleasant seat. It too has felt the lost and empty hours of a subway station, and I can imagine hundreds more like it scattered about the city, empty at this forsaken hour with pitiful souls hunkered down about them awkwardly, searching for comfort on these blockish fixtures. A black youth is slumbering on this bench too, dozing happily away. Head titled back, nose wheezing, arms strewn about on his chest. He has found some semblance of peace in his own quiescent dream world.
As sleep pervades me, I glance down the western uptown tunnel, thinking of quiet suburbs in a distant Connecticut and New York mainland, lush green trees and rows of tiny homes lined up with picket fences and mailboxes. Far away from the ancient Columbias, the crowded Times Squares, and skyscraper canyons, children are nestled in beds, dogs curled up on pillows, and a yellow moon traversing in the skies. But I can’t see that. It’s just a grim endless maw that greets my gaze. Outfitted with sharp orange lights leading into the railroad catacombs. The tracks stem out from it, submerged in filth and puddles of water stagnating in the heat, but a little mouse scurries into sight. Nose wiggling, tail dragging behind, and little pink feet wandering on the black rails. Angelic mouse, alive and awake with me in the subway caverns, he nods to me in his own peculiar way and continues on his trek. Our home, for now in the New York night is here under Fordham Road.
Subway Mouse
Nibbling and Running
Dodging midtown bound night trains
Refuge amongst rails
2 Comments
September 14, 2008 at 7:17 pm
I really like your way of writing. It’s almost like a dreamy story being told. I’d like to exchange links, can we do that? Keep it up!
September 14, 2008 at 7:49 pm
Wow. That was stunning. Well written.
You painted a picture, a scene, and a world. I was sucked inside while I read your words.