Underground

A Story by Blue Bunny

Descending the steps of the subway two at a time, Ethan’s slender body resembled that of a gazelle being chased by its predator. His lime green tie contrasted sharply with his black business suit. Sidestepping an awestruck tourist, he joined the throng of New Yorkers heading underground. As Ethan walked among the crowd, like a fish amongst its school, he took notice of the seemingly infinite amount of blackened gum that was now embedded within the concrete. He wondered to whom it had once belonged and why they deemed the ground an appropriate resting place for it. Over the years, it had lost its flavor, color, and character; it was overlooked and downtrodden.

“T-thhe n-next Uptown-town train i-is now ar-arriving.” The automated announcement system stuttered, causing Ethan to become aware of his surroundings and quicken his pace, as if competing against time.

He had perfected the quick swipe of a Metro Card which was required to avoid the wrath of his fellow commuters. He smirked inwardly after witnessing a young man at the turnstile to next to his attempt this transaction fruitlessly. This trivial triumph over another gave Ethan an irrational sense of pride. Following the flow of traffic down onto the platform, he wasn’t surprised to see that there was no train in sight. Pushing his way to the front of the crowd so that he stood atop the fluorescent bumps meant to aid the visually impaired, Ethan was drawn to an empty cup of Ramen noodles wobbling dangerously close to the third rail.

The container shook and rotated violently, as if possessed by an other worldly spirit. Abruptly, from the cup emerged a tail, a rather hairy rear end, and the body and head of New York’s favorite rodent. The look in the rat’s glistening, beady eyes shouted its omniscience. Looking at the straphangers as if they had just interrupted a private party, it sauntered away into the darkness. Rather than being repulsed by the creature, Ethan regarded it fondly. It was misunderstood, nonchalant about its unfavorable reputation, and just a little grimy.

Subconsciously checking his watch at regular intervals of about thirty seconds, Ethan regretted working in a city where he couldn’t be in finite control of each aspect of his life. Depending on others for anything was a practice he had long forgone. It was like that time when he was 10 years old when he had “lent” his older brother his highly revered collection of baseball cards. Instead of returning them safely as he had promised, Sam traded off the most valuable ones. Never again would Ethan stare lovingly at Paul O’Neill’s rookie card circa 1985.

To Ethan’s dismay, he was left waiting for a full ten minutes before he saw the telltale lights of a train approaching. Barreling into the station, the train reminded Ethan of a slithering steel snake swallowing up passengers before expelling them stops later. Stepping onto the train, he realized that it was unmistakably commissioned sometime during the 1980’s. It’s alternating orange and yellow seats were a welcome to change to the impersonal interior of its more modern counterparts. Taking a seat in the corner, Ethan tried to block out any external stimuli.

His remarkably dark eyelashes hadn’t been closed over his grey eyes for five seconds when the door leading to the next car opened. A complete Mariachi band squeezed its way into the crowded space and began to play. Ethan struggled to discern the meaning of the rapid words, wishing he had paid more attention in his high school Spanish class instead of focusing solely on Mandy Reynolds. He could remember what she had worn on each day of the week and the fact that on November 16^that exactly 12:54 she had asked to borrow an eraser. When he was prompted by his teacher, however, to conjugate a stem-changing verb, however, couldn’t answer in time, much less remember what class he was in. Snapping back to reality, Ethan noticed that the band had begun to play a catchy tune called Volver. Usually, he watched performers amusedly but did not take them seriously. Honestly, if an artist has to trap his audience in a moving vehicle in order to make it listen, his musical talent is most likely nothing spectacular.