The Partygoers

Present Day – 19:07

           The L Train. Not my usual train. Not a train I would normally take. But then again, I was not on my usual route. I was not going to a place I would normally go.

           A woman with groceries and two small children gets off at this stop and I hesitate to take the seat that was formerly hers. When I don’t notice an elderly person, a disabled person, an expectant mother, or someone else equally deserving of – or pining for – the seat, I claim it. This particular train car feels older with its bright orange, plastic seats. I can’t tell if the color brightens the car or adds to its dim image as we barrel through dark underground tunnels that don’t mirror the energetic, perpetually lit world above us. My usual train slightly mimics that upstairs upbeat life, but that’s mainly because it’s used to carrying the younger, rowdier crowds and fans after “painting the town” or an invigorating win.

           But, again, this isn’t my usual train.

           That fact sets in further as I study the faces sharing my car. I see a housewife: a platinum blonde, all dolled up, carrying shopping bags that announce to everyone she’s just wasted a pretty penny at the designer stores. She’s standing, no doubt in means to avoid wrinkling a dress she drops at the cleaners every time it needs a washing. I see a sitting businessman, his tie loosened, drunkenly dozing off between stops. An expensive, brown leather briefcase falling to the floor, out of his hands, each time he dozes a little too long. I see a young, college boy, headphones in, backpack on, holding onto a pole in the middle of the car. He’s clad in jeans he clearly wears a few times between washes and a band t-shirt. I see a middle aged woman, sensibly dressed, sitting on the opposite side of the car with reusable tote bags. Her eyes remain closed, save for the instances when she checks the time on her phone. And finally, I notice one more face. Another man. But he is not a businessman or a college boy. His apparel is somewhere in between. Nondescript jeans and a plain, solid colored t-shirt. A black bomber jacket, five o’clock shadow, and cold, dark eyes. His attempt to blend in probably works anywhere else in the city, but not here. Not in this car on this train that I don’t usually take.

*

Four months earlier – 23:11

           “Ohhhh!” A lively yet lighthearted exclamation from my coworkers followed by the roar of their laughter. Grinning, I put my hands up, a defensive gesture, and turn my attention to the boy whose tray I just knocked over. We both kneel to the carpet and gather the thankfully unbroken champagne glasses I had sent tumbling just moments before. I was putting on a show, reenacting a particularly annoying client, when I got overzealous and backed into the wait staff. Embarrassed, I chuckle now.

           “I’m really sorry, this is my fault. Got caught up in the moment, I guess,” I try to apologize. The boy, who I assume to be a college student looking for extra cash this holiday season, was dressed in black pants, white shirt, and black bow tie. He laughs and reassures me I’ve done no great harm. We scoop the now empty glasses onto the wet tray and he scurries back to the kitchen. I return to the other businessmen and our wives, just in time to hear some of the men rousing another.

           “Looks like we have our first of the night!” Another roar of laughter.

           “Yeah, every Christmas party is like this with him!” A knowing tone.

           “My nanny’s spotted him on the late trains going home, she says he’s always drunk and has even come onto her before. But he never remembers the next time they meet!” This time, a hushed tone. Quietly, we all eye the businessman, being escorted by an obviously embarrassed wife, clutching his expensive, brown leather briefcase as he incoherently bids us goodbye.

           00:12

           The party sounds of jazzy holiday tunes, meaningless small talk, glasses clinking, and the few “forbidden” business discussions that snuck in continues on. And I continue to make the rounds, checking on the caterers, wait staff, my business partners and their plus ones. I check that the caterers are mostly cleaned up and leaving after a grueling six hours of duty tending to the elite corporate men of the city. Save for a few bartenders and waiters (to keep the drinks flowing), they’re all finished for the night. I see to it that they have done a nice job of returning the kitchen to its customary clean and minimalist station. In the corridor, I catch one last caterer, a weary, middle-aged woman, packing some leftover food into reusable tote bags. She spots me watching her and is immediately fearful. She thinks it’s unbecoming for the lowly staff to take food from an extravagant social party such as this one. She thinks she’s stealing from us. In her line of work, I don’t doubt she’s encountered arrogant men who think this way, but I am not one of them. I approach her, hands raised slightly, and shake my head. I tell her to take all she wants, “it’ll go to waste otherwise.” Out of everyone, I saw her checking her watch the most throughout the night. I assume she has people, perhaps children, at home waiting for her and if they’re hungry, I won’t perpetuate that hunger. She smiles – genuine gratitude – and rushes to fill her reusable bags and scuttles out without drawing any more attention.

           As I turn to rejoin my fellow guests, I see a man come in the very door our caterer has just exited. That’s odd. The party is in full swing, much closer to its conclusion than its start. Why would someone be entering now? He’s not in party attire but he’s not clad in black and white either. He’s sporting a black bomber jacket.

           Perhaps a waiter who’s changed but forgotten something in the kitchen?

           No. He has five o’clock shadow. Most of our waiters were young men barely able to grow a chin hair.

           Perhaps a coworker who’s changed and returned for a final round?

           Highly unlikely. Once the missus decides it’s time to head out, that’s it for most of us.          And, besides, I don’t recognize this fellow.

           A shot rings through the corridor. A gun shot. A collective gasp from the lingering party-goers. A few shrill screams from the plus ones. And my body, frozen, in the corridor.

           The man zips up his jacket, pulling it up around his face obscuring all but his cold, dark eyes. I don’t dare move until the man runs back through the door he had just entered not moments ago. Seemingly, his job is finished.

           All at once, the noise resumes. This time it’s not carols and banter. It’s cries and confusion. It’s outrage and far off sirens. I turn to see the intended target behind me. The president of our company lies still on the floor bleeding from his head. His missus clutches her fur coat and screams in horror. She melts to the floor, a vision of jewels and silk and platinum hair at his side. The party is over.

Present Day – 19:28

           The train has completed a few more stops since I noticed the man, but we are both still in this car. I am curious. Will we get off at the same stop? The chipper, pre-recorded voice over the speaker suggests my stop is next and the man does not look prepared to disembark. I begin to stand and ready myself for my departure. I take in one final look around the car.

           I notice the lavish housewife. Or should I say widow now? She looks lovelier than the last time I saw her. Her platinum hair is bright as ever now that I don’t see it stained red with freshly splattered blood.

           I notice the slumped businessman who might’ve also noticed me had he not been out drinking again after a day at the office.

           I notice the young man who I bet wouldn’t have recognized me even if he weren’t listening to his headphones, playing oblivious to his surroundings.

           I notice the middle-aged woman who’s got bigger matters to be concerned with than yet another businessman like myself on a train in the city.

           The train slows to a stop and I take one final notice to the man in the black bomber jacket. His cold, dark eyes study me as I study him. I nod to him as I step off onto the platform. I turn to watch as my car pulls away, putting distance between the man and me. After the train disappears into the darkness, I smile to myself and walk towards the stairs, wondering if the man will ever know it was me who hired him to carry out that hit?