If Only They All Knew the Train

Life is always on the go; I get no breaks, no stops, no rest. I am essential, and without me, there would be no subway system. In a sense, I do take much pride in being the backbone of New York City transportation. New technological advancements made it possible for me, the train, to operate independently without a conductor. 

One of the more interesting parts of my job is listening to people (not with your ears, human). Whenever somebody enters one of my cars, I know their emotional state. I can prove it to you: a teen girl entered, and her boyfriend broke up with her about an hour ago. She's heading back to her house to tell her parents. She wants revenge (rightfully so). I hear a story like hers too many times in a day. I wish I could relate, but I can't. It's me, myself, and I. 

There are many other people who need me, especially young, rich, brilliant minds. They have places to be like their multi-million company or practicing for their lead role in the new Broadway show. And I get that, but they enter the subway without giving me any recognition, you know. All these folks think they're the main character in their fantasy world living the dream. It always reminds me of my youth when I was full of shiny gears and had a pristine sliver surface. Those days are long gone now. A bit of rust overtakes me every day. When I break, the screech gets just noticeably longer. But, with age, that happens to all of us. What can you do?

On the other side, there are so many homeless or very low-income people who need me as well. It saddens me to see these people struggling. I can't do anything about it, though I really wish I could.

When you get to be as old as me, you have time to think. I wonder what my life would be like as a human. Maybe I would be a business person; it's similar to life now as I'd always have something to do. Or perhaps I'd pick an artist. Exploring the world of creativity which I have been deprived of excites me. Or I would simply live, savoring the trivial moments in time. What does food taste like? Why do you humans enjoy it so much? I long to taste this 'pizza' talked about so much here in New York City. Who decided to put 'pineapple' on 'pizza'? 

Forgive me for rambling. A woman with a deep red like the color of your human blood entered one of my cars. She is elated; today is her first day as an intern at an art company specializing in graphic design. Good for her; I mean it. I have been her only form of transportation for all her life. Huh. She is holding the rail with white knuckles. Frantically, she's looking for something on the train to act as a distraction from her anxiousness. Her eyes settle on a person dressed up as a pigeon with a pigeon on their back. It's quite impressive, actually. They're going to a bird convention close to Central Park. In their early years, animals were their friend when nobody was there for them. All those 'weird' folk you see usually have unique and complex lives that can be fascinating and, unfortunately, devastating. 

The woman is transfixed on this person, curious. The small pigeon turns toward her and softly coos. 

Gratitude. Thankfulness. Comfort. The woman wouldn't take any other transportation for the world (why thank you). Interestingly, being on the subway calms her down (most of the time). Her physical and mental anxiousness seemed to have subsided. If I could wholeheartedly smile, I would. 

Some months pass…

It's the woman again. She entered with bright artificial blue hair this time. Today, she is starting as the lead manager of a new project at the art company she was interning for a while ago. She still has the same anxiousness, but it's elevated. Her older brother died recently. I'm sorry… 

She holds onto the rails like it's her own life. A man looks up at her for a little more than what is socially acceptable. He quickly looks away and sketches something on paper. The woman has learned to be vigilant (especially in this day and age) and moves away. The man looks at her again and sighs. He sketches some more. Little does the woman know that he is drawing her. He does this every time he rides the subway. It's a way for him to pass the time and meet new people. He feels hollow with an ache in his heart. He's lonely, just like me. She turns away from him and checks her phone, scrolling through pointless pictures on her social media feed. 

The man finishes his drawing and walks up to the woman. "For you, ma'am." Confusion crosses over her, and then realization. 

"Oh, thank you! That's so sweet. Wow, it's so detailed!" 

 He chuckles. "I'm here to add a little kindness to people's days." Heart beating fast, he continues, "When you entered, you struck me. I just needed to capture all your beauty."

"Oh...haha, thanks." She doesn't know what to say. She had never been in this situation before. "I-" she starts. 

I brake and we come to a stop. **86th Street**  

The woman slowly gets up. 

"Can I get your number, please?" the man asks, hoping he can turn his fate of loneliness around. 

"Yeah, it's (123) 123-1234." It's her burner phone number. She has no intention to call him but still appreciates the drawing. 

"Thanks. Talk soon!" He smiles and waves. 

The woman exits feeling indifferent yet less anxious than earlier. 

It's true; the subway is a messy yet comforting place that I happen to be a part of. Every day there is someone who comes back for the sake of nostalgia. Every day there is someone who will ride at 1 am when they're drunk. Every day there is someone who takes the subway to get to work. Every day someone calls me their home when they don't have one. 

Every single day I am needed, but yet I am overlooked. Not my mechanical body, but me. People come and go on the subway making memories, completely forgetting, or anything in between. That's how it is. If only they knew who I was, maybe I'd be able to help them in other ways rather than just transportation. Perhaps I wouldn't feel so hopeless. If only. 

I continue along the path I have only ever known.