I left the park earlier than usual that evening, maybe 10PM, but I likely could’ve kept the night going had I been a bit more proactive. My friends thought it was out of character, and it was, but I blamed it on insomnia. It was a half-truth, but I didn’t know how else to tell them I wanted to be alone. So I stepped into the West 4 St- Washington Square Station, which was much less crowded than one would expect on a Friday night. There was a jittery old man holding open the emergency exit, and I handed him a crumpled dollar bill from my pants pocket before going through. The officers at the entrance glanced at me, as if to judge me for helping the homeless. I paid them little attention and headed down the stairs to wait for the southbound A train.
As the seconds turned into minutes, my freshly exhausted companionship thinned into a veil of loneliness. Wanting to procrastinate the desolation, I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket and opened Instagram. There she stood, in her white skirt and red top in front of a beaten down building, in a picture posted only a few hours ago. The colors made her look slightly like a rose. I guessed the picture was taken somewhere in Brooklyn, though any discernible identifier was hard to make out. Her golden brown skin glowed under the headlights of the building entrance. Her lips were a bright red, curving into a slight smile. She stood about as tall as a 5 foot 2 inch woman could, her model-like gaze fixated on the camera in a way I knew came effortlessly to her. I could imagine her sitting in bed, agonizing over the decision to press post. Normally she would’ve called and sent me the pictures. I’d have confirmed how beautiful she looked, assured her the world deserved to know it too. But she hadn’t called me in weeks, and for good reason.
Her big brown eyes sat on me as I retreated into her comments, scrolling through hundreds trying to find guys that she might be interested in now. My chest sank deeper with each emoji and syllable. My eyes traced each word under her over and over, and my blood seethed as I saw people I didn’t recognize. I tried to shake off the feeling and remember that she was entitled to move on in any way she saw fit. Besides, even if she was interested in these guys, it wasn’t any of my business to begin with.
The whistle of the wind shrieked past me, blowing my open jacket into wings as the train whirred into the station. I stepped in with her picture still open, expecting for some reason to see her sitting there waiting for me. The train car was emptier than I’d thought it’d be, maybe two dozen people total. I sat at the intersection of an orange T-shaped seat, facing the corner of the cart where two girls were sitting, around my age. Curious, I tried to decipher if they were coming from or going to a club, their dresses fancy and faces cakey from sweating in their makeup. I could also tell they were French, but less so from their makeup as much from their French accents. They spoke of how the trains in New York City look very different from one another. My friend Armand told me earlier that week that the trains with orange seats are an older model from a different company. They weren’t standardized, but eventually the government bought them all and made the MTA. He says the blind can tell immediately which line is which by the humidity. He also says that the longer I linger on the past, the harder it’ll be to move on, but I prefer the train trivia.
I decided not to tell the girls the fun fact, so as not to ruin their wonder. Plus, talking to strangers isn’t my thing. I looked at my lap, where her comments were still loaded on my phone. I had to read about a hundred more to catch up. As the train lost connection in the tunnel charging toward the next station, that’s what I did. I half-expected to combust into flames by the time the next stop was announced. When we slowed to Canal Street, I refreshed her comments again. Ten more popped up. I scanned them quickly and furiously, hoping one of them would say something that justified my jealousy. But three hundred comments and I couldn’t find her entertaining anyone. I begrudgingly put my phone in my pocket and switched to a book I’d been meaning to start.
I got to page one and immediately my focus was broken as a man, maybe forty, stumbled into the train hoisting an older man on his shoulders. The younger man had a trimmed beard and presumably short hair, though most of scalp was hidden under a gray hoodie. He wore black joggers with another black jacket wrapped around his waist. He was strong, big-boned, at least 6 foot 2, and though a bit dusty, well-kept. His face contorted seemingly with rage, confirmed when he shoved the old man into the seat across the French girls. The men were no longer in my view, hidden by the poles and railings, but I briefly saw the older one slump into the seats. My eyes darted to the girls instead. Their curious expressions halted, souring as the younger man spoke briefly to them. Their eyes scanned around the entire train cart, mostly to one another, but momentarily to me. After what appeared to be another exchange with the man, they stood up and rushed over to my direction, their heels clicking urgently against the ground as they crammed into the seats perpendicular to me. The man’s voice trailed behind them, loud and certain:
“Honest to God don’t blame you two. He smell like shit.” The girls kept their eyes focused on their laps and one another. The man took one of the seats they’d been in, now facing the older man. “You see man? Those two bitches can’t even stand your fucking SMELL.” No doubt he was angry, but there was a disappointment under his voice as it echoed across the train cart. He looked again to the girls, now me, by proxy, letting his body relax to make himself less threatening, though he didn’t do a very good job. “Sorry to call you bitches,” he began, less loud and less certain, “He my uncle, man. My family. Hate to see a motherfuckah like this. Shit got me fucked up.” One of the girls glanced over at him quickly, nodding timidly and sympathetically before going back to her phone.
Nephew turned back to Uncle, asserting again, “Man you gotta wash my nigga. You gotta wash your ass. You gotta wash your fucking NUTS. You think bitches gon like that shit man? You smell like piss.” He moved his hands with every syllable, clenched his fists growing tighter as he went on until I imagined he’d poke holes in his palms. He took a moment and let the anger flush from his face, replaced now by a faint pain. “I’d fucking kill motherfuckahs for you man. You my family. That’s FAMILY. How could you fuck with them niggas over your fucking blood man?” His voice shook, poorly concealed under his anger.
Uncle muttered something weakly, and Nephew cursed to himself, taking to his feet. He unwrapped the jacket from his waist and held Uncle by the shoulders, positioning him upwards. Nephew threw his jacket over the old man, and the latter slumped back into his seat. “Fucking pathetic man,” Nephew said regretfully, “When’s the last time you fucked anyone man? What bitch even wanna fuck you smelling like piss?” The old man lifted his head, and I could make out the wild, gray hair that stuck up from his scalp in all directions. “Last week,” he answered, his voice hoarse but undeniably boastful. Nephew studied his face for a moment, bewildered, before erupting into a howl of laughter. “No way my nigga! What dirty ass bitch be fucking you?” Uncle laughed with him, much quieter. Nephew sat back down. They lingered in that laughter as the train car hummed beneath their chuckles.
After the laughter subsided, Nephew looked back up at Uncle. “When was the last time you seen Jessica man? You even remember her?” The old man was now slumped back into the seats, and Nephew, likely in an attempt to ease his frustration, turned once again to the girls and me. “Jessica is his sister, my mom.” There was a warmth to the way he said the words, but the girls were much less interested in hearing him than I was. “Motherfuckah made us all move to New York just for him to go and fuck his life up.” Past the book on my lap, still sitting on page 1, I looked at one of the girls through my peripheral. Her eyes were hyper-focused to her phone, her fingers swiping left and right repeatedly on her home screen. The other one appeared to be fixated on a photo of a dog in her camera roll. Nephew brushed it off as disinterest, returning his gaze again to the old man. “You know man,” he said, pointing at him, “I’m really fucking grateful you got our asses here though. Bitches here ain’t nothing like they were back home,” he glanced briefly at the girls then back to Uncle, “Nigga, my bitch right now? Badder than my baby mama.” I pulled the book up to my face to hide my smile. I don’t know what I expected him to say but that caught me off guard. “She a West-Indian bitch,” he continued, “They know how to shake that ass. She be shaking that shit like-” I moved the book back to my lap, and saw, out of the corner of my eyes, he had stood up and was gyrating his hips. It looked like it hurt. He started singing Ravi B’s “Start Over,” out of tune as he did it. He turned to the girls to see if they were watching him. They weren’t, but I was. He pointed at me, “My nigga over here know what I’m talking about.” I smiled instinctively, mostly out of nervousness but also because a part of me did know what he was talking about. He sat back down after misremembering the bridge of the song, applauded weakly by the old man. Nephew bowed, and the two chuckled between themselves.
The train slowed to the Fulton Street Station, and the majority of the passengers hastily herded out of the train, including the two girls. “I gotta leave next stop man,” Nephew said, somehow both wistfully and hopefully, “Gotta see my woman.” Uncle muttered something to him, to which he responded with “Yeah, I know man. Jessica is waiting for you at Rockaway. Just get out at the station and she’ll be there for you. Just like before.” The old man grunted, interrupted by the train announcing closing doors.
As we took off toward the High Street Station, the two spent much of the time in silence. I finally turned my book to page two. As I continued through the story, I held onto Nephew in the corner of my gaze. He sat up, his eyes closed. He swayed with the train, and every so often he’d open up an eye to look at Uncle, as if to assure he was still there. He did this sporadically until the train slowed, the automated message welcoming us to High Street.
Nephew stood, looming over the old man who lay slumped in his seat. Uncle’s arm wobbled as he put it on the young man’s shoulder. Nephew put his own hand on Uncle’s shoulder. “Keep the jacket,” he said, “and here.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. He surfed through it for a few moments as the train doors opened. He took the old man’s hand off of his shoulder and opened his palm, slapping two twenty dollar bills into it. “Get something for you and Jessica.” The old man mumbled something as Nephew walked out of the train cart, presumably a thank you. Nephew turned around once he stepped outside “Welcome,” he said, “You got this. I’m really fucking counting on you man.” He stared at the train as we took off from the station, beforing turning to the stairs and making his way up.
Once we entered the tunnel, the old man took to his feet like a zombie, standing at around 5 foot 8 inches tall. He crammed the bills into his pants pocket, and I caught a better view of him as he stumbled around the cart. He was skinny, though his legs seemed to wobble under his weight. He wore a torn up white t-shirt under Nephew’s much nicer bomber jacket. His black sweatpants had tears in it much like his shirt. Even his left shoe was torn at the front, and his bare foot seemed stuck to the sole. He slowly made his way to the closed doors, a strange conviction behind each labored step.
As the train slowed to the next station, Jay Street – Metrotech, the old man turned to look at the passengers who also stood to leave. I studied his face as he glanced paranoid from person to person. It was notably wrinkled, accompanied by a dirty white, unkept beard. He had a scar from a slash under his right eye that he seemed to rub at with the back of his right hand ever so often. His skin was dry, and there were traces of white powder above his even dryer lips. He seemed to size up the four other people who stood up waiting for the train to stop.
When the train did stop, he rushed out despite his languidness. He limped to the other side of the track, where the northbound A train whirred into the station. He barely stepped in and took his seat before the doors to my own train closed. He faced ahead, his expression unmoving as we took off in opposite directions. I wondered briefly if he realized the humidity was the same.
Another twenty minutes passed while I continued with my book. Underwhelmed, as the train skidded back to the overground track, I had half a mind to pull out my phone and look at her picture again, but I decided against the impulse. Painfully turning pages of the story, I paid more attention to the smashing of the track around me rather than the words. The outside air whipped as the train flurried over the track. I eventually closed the book, opting to sit there in the quiet and listen to the air.
I thought of the two men. I thought of the look on Nephew’s face as he made his way out, the way his eyes caught fire as he assured himself Uncle would change. But Uncle made his decision the moment he slumped into his seat; he knew he’d betray Nephew’s trust. He had to have known. That’s exactly my point, I thought. Nephew wanted to trust Uncle, and that was his first mistake. It’s such a strange thing to trust someone, to put yourself at their mercy.
That’s why she and I ended things. You can’t know if someone is Uncle until the damage is done. You want to believe you can blindly put your faith in someone or something, but you also have to put faith in yourself that you could survive the fallout if you’re wrong. I can’t trust myself with that responsibility. My mind drew to Jessica, how Nephew said she was always there for Uncle. How disappointed she would be, I thought, to know that people don’t change. My thoughts are broken as the conductor announces Rockaway to be the next stop. I usually get off at the stop after Rockaway, the Aqueduct. But Rockaway isn’t too inconvenient, only an extra ten minute walk.
I don’t talk to strangers, but I figured I’d tell Jessica that her brother wasn’t coming. Maybe I’d see a somber old woman standing by the track and give her the news. I sat silent, waiting for the train to stop. As it did, I took to my feet and huddled out as soon as the doors opened. I sped left down the stairs to the entrance of the station underpass, the orange hum of station light and traffic honking the only noise besides my footsteps.
Inside housed a security officer and a few turnstiles. I decided the white bulky man sporting his blue patriot uniform wasn’t named Jessica and proceeded to go back up the stairs as the onslaught of passengers made their way through me. I took to the other end, jogging the length of the train and brushing through person after person. After half a minute I reached the opposite side of the station. I made my way down the stairs scanning for anyone who might be waiting. Passenger after passenger brushed by me, saying sorry as they bumped into my shoulder. My neck craned side to side looking for a soul who seemed to be waiting. But there was nobody. No old woman. No expecting sister. No Jessica. Only me, waiting for a woman who knew better.
When I left the station I was taken aback by how the cold hit my skin. It torched my fingertips and I knew the extra ten minutes wasn’t worth the extra dollar. I took refuge in a deli, and in between the pastries and register, I ordered an Uber. I bought a stick of gum in an effort to convince the cashier that I wasn’t taking advantage of the heated indoors. As I waited, I made my way back to Instagram, where my phone sat on a picture of the same beauty, smiling with her red lipstick and big eyes. I studied her face for a moment, liked the picture, then closed out of the app. Perhaps some things are damaged beyond repair, but maybe we can fix them before they get that way.