Doors

“Stand clear of the closing doors, please”

Rachel heard the announcement scratch its way through the speakers of the subway’s public address system as she had countless times before. She inhaled while the fresh air was available and watched as several more passengers squeezed themselves into an already overcrowded car.

She had been riding for some time. Not half an hour yet, she was fairly sure, but Rachel was uncertain how long she had been on that train. Feeling insecure or uneasy was nothing new these days, but this was different. Her eyes were riveted on the door and the faces of those coming through, though she reminded herself not to make eye contact.

Rachel could feel the tightness increase -- tightness on the train and in her chest. It was a little bit harder to breathe with each additional body that packed in around her. She clutched the pole tighter, with both hands now, fearing she might be swept away in this ocean of people. ‘Where are they all going?’ she asked herself.

The train lurched from the platform and the mass of passengers briefly swayed as one. Feeing it in the pit of her stomach, Rachel closed her eyes suddenly nauseas. She panicked for a moment afraid the lunch she must have recently forced down was coming back come back up. It did not.

“Stand clear of … closing doors …, ” came the broken up broadcast again.

A heavy wave of warm air washed over her and lingered as the train lurched forward. It was stifling, like the exhaust of a city bus, more akin to drowning than baking in a scorching heat, like she did last August on the beach.

“Please,” said Rachel softly hoping to coax her stomach into submission.

“Thank you,” said an elderly woman sitting down where another passenger had surrendered their seat.

Rachel was suddenly disoriented. “How long have I been on this train?” she muttered allowed, though too softly for anyone to notice.

She caught a glimpse of the station wall through the space between the woman’s head and the raised arm of what she thought they used to call a ‘straphanger’ standing practically on top of her.

The once grand mosaic tile that identified the station was filthy and far older than Rachel and probably every other passenger on the train. In the brief moment she could see it, it blurred into nothing and her stomach swayed and lurched once again.

The train lumbered in and out of darkness, crawling from station to station. Squealing as it made some of the tighter turns in the old tunnel the lights flickered as they do at the least opportune moments.

“… stand clear … … closing doors,” the prerecorded voice piped in.

“Lower Manhattan, the Battery, Wall Street,” she figured.

Assessing the crowd, Rachel confirmed she had left Brooklyn and crossed into the city. Most of those squeezed in around her now were wearing what passed for work attire these days. Women were mostly in skirts and dresses. The men outfitted for a casual Friday that seemed to last all week.

The thought ‘Women almost always try harder’ flashed through her head. Rachel knew she was thinking about more than simply clothes.

Rachel heard the conflicting thumps of different music playing in the ears of other passengers nearby. She smelled the remnants of tobacco and pot mixed with urine and body odor and … Chinese food. 

Out of the corner of one eye she saw the subterranean picnicker, spooning fried rice from a carton in a bag held up near his face. ‘How could anyone eat on a crowded train like this?’ she always wondered.

‘Don’t throw up,’ she said inaudibly. Rachel couldn’t now remember what she had eaten, or even if - but was suddenly struck by the embarrassing notion that she and everyone around her could find out suddenly. 

Concentrating on breathing in as deeply as possible and pushing the air back out in an effort to slow her pulse and calm her insides, Rachel felt relief when the ride then smoothed considerably. The distance and time between stations increased and the lights remained lit. She felt a little better.

The train was now on one of the stretches where what passed for comfort could be achieved. She could relax her muscles and lock her joints in their place without fear of toppling over.

Thankful, Rachel cautiously removed one hand from the pole and rested it in an empty pocket. “Wait!” her brain alarmed. “My keys,” her lips followed, though more hushed. She tried to look at the ground in case they had simply fallen out beneath her. It was no use. Her legs were pressed against a bag, between her and the pole. Hers?

“Excuse me?!” asked someone nearby. “I don’t have my keys,” she answered before realizing the other passenger was only trying to squeeze past her toward the doors and speaking desperately to the mass of people between he and it.

Rachel’s pulse quickened and her heart beat in her ears now as suddenly it all came crashing back. She thought about the apartment, the broken coffee maker, the final useless argument and her keys in the bowl on the stand. She felt herself trembling.

Leaving was long overdue but still, apparently, a shock to the system. Once before, She’d had enough and packed a bag before spending a month alone at the shore. But that was different. It was mutual. They had started to discuss time apart. At least, they had started to discuss it but Rachel was left talking to a slammed door.

Rachel was never certain why she had come back. Friends and family had asked her, and she would shrug the question off with a forced smile and tilt of her head. She had been gone and returned, but nothing had changed. Perhaps the beach felt too much like an escape from reality. It was perhaps as much a vacation from … everything as anything else.

Those same friends had even complimented her on her tan…

This morning in the occupied but always lonely apartment, she had packed what mattered and followed up on her plans to go -- and they all flowed back to her; The loose ends she had tied, the girlfriend’s apartment, where Rachel would be a roommate once again, the goodbye letter, she had written and rewritten and left on the kitchen table.

And those keys were not in her pocket on this trip. The safety was gone.

Rachel steadied her nerves trying to envision her future as the train rumbled on. “The next stop is mine,” she thought aloud.

“… Closing doors,” the subway speaker sputtered, and the train rumbled on.

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