Nyctophilia and The N Line: Part Five – Conclusion

The following contains explicit language. The author advises that any one with an aversion to such language move along, or at the very least not complain.

1:36 AM

Friday

The last half hour had seemed to stretch on at the pace of two full hours, and the passengers languished in time’s apparent halting. Though several windows had been opened not long after the conductor’s announcement, the men and women were beginning to strain from their collected heat. They had removed overcoats and hats, unbuttoned shirts and blouses, but no amount of reasonable shedding seemed to help alleviate the stifling warmth.

The passengers anxiously eyed one another. Had they, like Kayden, tuned in to the tension which hung like steam in their communal, subterranean sauna? Perhaps they were watching one another out of sheer boredom? In actuality they were sizing one another up; looking for faults or quirks that could be used to justify any number of impending explosions. No one likes the asshole who yells at an old woman, but maybe they would be more forgiving of the socially conscious civilian who yelled at an old woman who wouldn’t stop hacking phlegm into bunched-up tissue paper… Such rationalizations ran rampant.

At the front of the car, having sweated their way to sobriety, the rowdy group of young men were beginning to lose their patience. While the wait had been lighthearted for them in the beginning, their begrudging sobriety had given them very little to be amused by.

“Fuck, me,” one of the men lamented as he looked at his watch. “We’ve already missed last call at Bohemian Hall.”

“Emmy will have left by now.” His goateed friend chimed in, throwing his head back. “I was totally going to tap that tonight, man.”

The passengers shook off the Goateed Man’s crass lack of discretion, which must have displeased the man. He began knocking on the door of the conductor’s compartment.

“Hey! Asshole!” The Goateed Man pressed his face to the door. “You owe me a lay. Your sister free?”

Several passenger’s vocalized their disapproval of the Goateed Man’s insistance on continuing his lazy routine, and so loudly. Others, the Goateed Man’s friends included, snickered and jeered.

“Shit, I’ll take your mother if you don’t have a sister.”

“Would you shut up?” Demanded a Middle Aged Man sitting next to Kayden, taking ahold of his Wife’s hand. “We don’t care for that kind of talk.”

The Goateed Man looked to the Middle Aged Man, his nostrils flaring. “Excuse me? You don’t talk to me like that.”

“And who are you?” The Wife shot back.

The Middle Aged Man, feeling vulnerable, attempted to recall his Wife by squeezing her hand. His looked to the floor, hoping trouble would pass him by.

The Goateed Man did what was customary in such situations. He straightened up, puffing his chest and huffing as he strode over to the Middle Aged Man and his Wife. It was a behavior that was engrained in many men’s DNA — an archaic reaction to having been called upon to be reasonable. It was one of the many flaws that haunted male members of homo sapiens — especially the young. It was a physical instinct that was called upon when a person hadn’t the mental fortitude to react otherwise.

“And who the fuck are you?” The question, purely hypothetical, seethed from the Goateed Man’s frothing, clenched teeth.

“I…” the Middle Aged Man began, stumbling over his nerves. “I’m just some one who wants to wait patiently in quiet. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t asking you.” retorted the Goateed Man. “I was asking the bitch.”

Nearly every one of the passenger’s winced at the Goateed Man’s words, but none of them said a word. This wasn’t their fight, they rationalized.

“Now listen,” the Middle Aged Man said with an ounce of courage. “You can’t call my wife something so hurtful.”

“Listen: I’m sorry I’ve upset you for using foul language,” the Goateed Man condescended. “But just because you don’t get laid any more doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t talk about ‘making love’ in front of you.”

“Now hold on…”

“Oh, what? Do you still tap that shit? Let me guess, she let’s you in every couple of months right? When you’ve been good?”

The Goateed Man looked back at his friends. They all shared a laugh.

“I’ve had just about enough of you, you… frickin’ punk.” The Middle Aged Man’s attempt at vulgarity came as naturally as his timid attempt at bravery. The awkwardness of it all traveled through each passenger, all of whom secretly hoped that the Goateed Man would just up and punch the poor fellow. After that release things could go back to normal. Maybe the train would even start up, and the night could commence.

Instead, the Goateed Man just laughed a hearty guffaw. He confronted his friends, mocking the Middle Aged Man’s nervous chivalry.

“Hold the gosh darn phone,” he parroted in a nasally voice. “You can’t say the f-word. It’s offensive.”

He went on like that for some time, taking the car hostage with his excruciating brand of entertainment. The Middle Aged Man and his Wife had since looked back at the floor, trying to simply ignore the strutting moron. Kayden, however, had decided that the brute had gone on long enough. If even for only her own sanity, she would have to do something.

She waited for the Goateed Man to wander closer to her, and when he was within arm’s reach she made her move. Bolting from her seat, piloted purely by her own confused instinct, Kayden took the Goateed Man by his jeans. With one forceful motion she yanked them down, revealing a secret the Goateed Man had been hiding with all of his posturing:

Instead of boxers or briefs was a pair of women’s underwear. They were silk, adorned with a frilly, laced bow on the front. A thong ran along the backside.

The Goateed Man froze in place, basking in the dropped jaws of every one in the compartment. His friends recoiled, their expressions caught in a limbo between abject horror and pure bafflement. No one said a word.

The on-board intercom chimed, and came the conductor’s voice. It was sullen, but remained professional. “We will be moving in just a moment, ladies and gentlemen. There was an incident on the tracks, and it has only now been handled.”

An incident… The riders all knew what that meant, and the conductor’s tone only verified. At some point during the night, one of the city’s forgotten had stumbled onto the tracks. Even in the coming days, no information would be released that might reveal the person’s identity. No motivation would be gleaned.

“Thank you again for your patience and understanding. Thank you for riding MTA, and get home safely.” The intercom cut off.

The Goateed Man pulled his pants back up, rejoined his friends at the front of the train, and refused to make a peep for the remainder of the ride. The Middle Aged Man and his Wife huddled closer together, sharing small, quiet chuckles with one another.

The next few stops came and went, and Kayden found herself alone in the car by the time the train reached Lexington Avenue. After the events of the night, she relished the solitude. The city had given her more than she had bargained for when she stepped out of her apartment hours earlier. And this was the city’s charm.

True, there were misanthropes at every turn. Kayden was one such example. Her affinity for exploring the night had always made her an outcast back home. But these broken, vulnerable people were what made the city live up to its grand aspirations. She didn’t belong back in the midwest, where everything closed down with the sun’s setting, and every one scrambled back into their homes so that they could fill their evenings with television programs that safely revealed the world that existed outside their doors.

Kayden was still a part of that mentality deep down. All of her observing and skulking in the shadows — this behavior was in keeping with the repressed nature of her upbringing. But she had moved beyond that. The minute she lept from her seat and pulled on the Goateed Man’s pants, revealing his own repressed nature that shamed him so… she had not merely been watching the city she loved. She had written her own chapter to be read.

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Nyctophilia and The N Line: Part Four

12:50 AM

Friday

The N train barreled through the tunnels, heading back to Queens. Kayden had found herself so affected by Zaria’s musings that the best thing she could do, as near as she could figure, was to return to her apartment. She had gotten more out of the night than she had expected, and it was unlikely that the 20 stops between 14th Street/Union Square and Coney Island would follow suit. Indeed, Zaria’s public breakdown had outweighed even the best goings-on of  prior weeks.

The train had just disembarked from the platform at 49th Street, and was midway through the tunnel when it came to a screeching halt. Drunks grabbed for the stabilizing rails as their booze-logged bodies swayed toward the front of the car. Strangers merged with one another, dislodging the shopping bags and purses that separated one from the other. An old woman tumbled to the floor, landing perfectly on her rear end. For the next two minutes, as the lights of the train flickered and went soft, the woman’s moaning was all that broke the silence.

Once the passengers had regained their composure, a young woman rose from her seat and helped the old woman to it. The others on the bench spaced themselves out so as to provide ample room. It would have been a touching scene, were it not for the careless release of chuckles and chortles from a group of drunk men clustered near the front of the car. No one took them to task for their behavior, possibly because the scene had been quite humorous.

Before any one could ask aloud what the matter was, the overhead speaker chimed gingerly.

“Attention, passengers,” the voice of the conductor came calmly, made tinny by loose wires in need of replacing. “There has been an incident at the 5th Avenue station, and we are now in holding pattern indefinitely.”

The conductor’s boiler-plate platitudes thanking the passengers for their patience and understanding went almost unheard, buried under the countless lamentations. The choir of “fuck me” and “can you believe that shit” subsided after a moment, giving way to a cadence of perturbed sighs and agitated muttering as the wait extended into the yawning morning. Even Kayden, who would normally relish the chance to observe to her heart’s content, found the train’s immobility to be quite an inconvenience.

The subway was not her favorite place to explore her habits. Inside their cramped cars, people were more willing to wear their personas which won them their poor reputations. It wasn’t strictly a New York thing — not hardly. Indeed, it was a very human condition to break under the stress of being confined to closed quarters, not knowing how long it would be until your scheduled life could commence.

Compounding the issue was the relative unpleasantness that was trademark of all public transportation. Vagrants left their odors behind. Even if a homeless person had not been in a particular car for 20 minutes, still it would linger. What should have served as a reminder that there were men and women in dire need of help in the city, instead, served only to remind more prosperous members of society why it was they avoided contact with them.

When the smell of vagrants wasn’t burning the nostrils of impatient riders, the general woes of daily life would begin to gnaw at them. These concerns — often times petty, some times quite great — had nowhere to go, you see. There were no bars to dispense distracting tonics, no trails to be jogged, and certainly no pillow into which a person might bury his or her face and scream. They would rattle around in their synaptic cages, chewing and chewing until, at last, they could emerge.

Emerge they would, brilliantly and violently. A New Yorker trapped in a subway car was capable of terrible fury, and like antelope grazing listlessly in some prairie who can feel a predator approaching — feel it in their bones, in the very fiber of their muscles… such tension could be felt by all others on the train.

But man’s ability to discern from where, exactly, such danger might arrive was scattershot. Centuries of living in mostly controlled societies had dulled their instincts. As a survival mechanism, homo sapiens had learned to hang their heads and hope that the trouble would simply pass them by. Woe be upon the poor bastard who stood in its way.

It troubled Kayden that she could sense the tension rising, and yet the train showed no sign of moving. She kept her eyes to the ground, yet could not keep them from anxiously inspecting each passenger. Who would it be?, she thought. Who is going to make this worse? Who is going to cross that line?