Copyright is held by the author.
THE OLD “D” train pulled into the 14th Street station with an ear-splitting blast. Steel wheels scattered sparks as it skidded to a halt. The brakes sighed exhaling ozone and the doors swung open. Harold and Ralph stepped from the platform into the middle car.
“You’re always better off riding in the middle,” said Harold raising a nicotine-stained finger to his son. “That way, if the train gets whacked at either end, you escape most of the damage.”
“No, you just get crushed in the middle,” Ralph replied. “Here, let me sit on the outside. I’m a lot fatter than you.” The two lurched into their seats as the train started accelerating. “Sometimes it’s good to be fat.” Harold winked his good eye. “You know why?” he said, elbowing his son gently.
“No. Why?”
“Because then nobody wants to sit next to you!”
“Oh, I thought you wanted to sit on the outside to protect me,” Ralph leaned on the dirty window sill turning to his father, his face tinted red-green by the signal lights flashing in the tunnel.
“Wise guy.” Reaching down, Harold let his belt out several notches.
“Wait, Pop,” Ralph raised his hands in mock horror. “You’re not taking off your pants, are you? This isn’t a strip show.”
“What? I’m just easing the pressure on my rupture. How come you kids think you know everything?” Turning his dead left eye to his son, he said: “You’re lucky I can’t see you right, or I’d whack you one.”
“This is the New York subway, Pop. Smell the stink? Look at the dirty floors. Beats the Roman coliseum. This is the greatest show on Earth.”
“I don’t know about the coli-what? I still know more than you.” Harold adjusted his fly. “I’m more worldly wise.”
Ralph’s fresh, teenage eyes travelled the car, from the sign “Bronx – 207 Street- Coney Island,” to the flickering fluorescent lights lining the ceiling that tinted the passengers’ faces an indifferent, deracinated yellow. “The Subway Tan.” He counted them. Fourteen people slumped in their seats, plenty of room for more. The heavy man opposite them was eating popcorn, rustling the bag while he studied the Daily News. A woman was filing her nails while several seats away, another fellow picked something from his scalp. Ralph closed his eyes, wishing the train would black out as subway cars often did. But no luck. It rocked into the 125th Street station and ground to a halt. Passengers got off, but more got on. This train was heading north to the Bronx, to a working class city vision of suburbia. Largely consisting of hilly concrete streets with withered trees seen through dirty windows. That was where Harold and Ralph lived. Last to board was a man in his 20s. He stood out — slender, handsome, nicely dressed in a pressed blue suit and tie. He looked down carefully at his fake cordovans shined to mirror brightness.
There were still plenty of seats, but he stepped to the enamel pole in the centre of the car. As the doors closed and the train picked up speed, he seemed to be studying the passengers. His eyes flickered over Harold and Ralph and he clutched the pole tighter, pulling himself against it like a lover. He was the only one standing as they pulled into 135th Street. When the doors closed, he cleared his throat loudly over the train’s mounting roar. This caught Ralph’s attention. Maybe he was one of those political speakers so popular in the 1960s. Good for a laugh. The man looked around at the other passengers, slumping in hot seats bolted to the floor.
Then he spoke to his captive audience, in a loud clear voice: “I know you’re talking about me. I know you’re thinking about me. I know you’re looking at me.” He looked around, and repeated: “You’re looking at me. You’re thinking about me. You’re talking about me. I know you’re talking about me. I know you’re thinking about me. You’re looking at me.” The fellow reading the Daily News looked up, spilling popcorn over the sports page. The lady stopped filing her nails. The scalp picker stopped inspecting the dandruff under his fingernails. The rest of the passengers looked around, as if uncertain of the remarks or their source.
Again the man said, “I know you’re thinking about me. You’re talking about me. You’re looking at me,” in a voice that boomed over the train’s roar. He swivelled his head slowly as if gauging the effect of his words. Again, louder: “I know you’re looking at me. You’re talking about me. You’re thinking about me.” The train pulled into 145th Street. Large station. Passengers exited; more passengers entered. Most of the seats were now filled and travellers grabbed for the poles and straps as the train lurched forward.
“I know you’re looking at me,” the refrain began, “You’re talking about me. You’re thinking about me.” The newbies looked around in surprise. Some glared at each other, searching for the guilty party.
Until they heard: “I know you’re thinking about me. You’re talking about me. You’re looking at me,” coming from the pole in the centre. Nobody else touched that pole. Several seat holders close to the man stood up and backed toward the doors leaving their seats empty for braver souls. As the train entered 155th Street, and the shouting continued, Harold started rubbing his thighs. Ralph saw this as a bad sign. The old man was working himself up into a lather. More people crowded in and the stink of sweat mingling with dirty clothes grew.
“I know you’re looking at me. I know you’re talking about me. I know you’re thinking about me.” A woman straphanger stumbled in her high heels, adding to the tension. Someone helped her up. Harold rubbed his thighs harder.
“He’s doing that on purpose. He’s doing it purposely,” Harold exclaimed. “he’s an underminer.” The rubbing seemed to fill Harold with energy. He turned to Ralph. “Boy, I wish I was younger. I would fix him. Did you see the way he made that woman fall down?” A guy in short sleeves, tattooed arms, sitting across the aisle from them nodded in agreement.
“No he didn’t, Pop. She stumbled by herself.” Harold gave his son his shrewdest one-eyed look.
“But he encouraged it — on purpose. I know the type.” Nodding. “I would fix him.” As though to feed the fire, the refrain started up louder.
“I know you’re looking at me. I know you’re thinking about me. I know you’re talking about me.” The mob stared at each other, chagrined, somehow humiliated. Several men began pounding their palms with their fists. The stench of sweat grew.
“He’s causing it,” Harold said louder. “This car stinks like a stable.”
“Easy, Pop. I think a stable is cleaner.” Continuing to rub one thigh, Harold poked his left finger at the centre pole.
“If I was younger, boy, I would let him have it.” The shouter smiled happily. Gripping the pole with both hands, strangling it, he screamed, “I know you’re talking about me —”
“That’s it.” Harold started to stand, rocking, grabbing the edge of the seat. “I can’t take it.” Ralph pulled him back down.
“Listen, Pop —”
“I know you’re looking at me —”
“You don’t want to get into a fight —”
“Why not?” Harold’s blind eye glared.
“’Cause he’s 30 years younger than you and a lot taller.”
“I know you’re thinking about me.”
Harold froze in a squatting position. “But he’ll be very afraid of my arms.”
“Listen, Pop. Suppose he has a knife. Maybe a bayonet he brought back from Vietnam. The guy is crazy —”
“There’s no such thing.”
“— and he stabs you right in your rupture,” Ralph said, poking his father’s rubbery navel. “The blade goes clear through your liver. ‘Pop’ and out your spine. You’re paralyzed, bleeding, dead on the floor.” Harold’s good eye searched the car suspiciously.
“I know you’re looking at me —”
Unable to hold the squat, Harold collapsed back down. He covered his ears. The whole car was murmuring.
“I can’t stand it. I’ve got to do something. What should I do?” He started getting up again.
“— thinking about me.”
“If you’ve got to do something, Pop. Go talk to the guy.”
“What?”
“—looking at me. Looking at me! Looking at me,” the man started screaming repeatedly.
“Sure. Talk nicely to him. Probably no one has ever done that before. You know ‘music can soothe the savage beast.’”
“What beast? Wha-what should I say?”
“Whatever comes into your mind is right. Just say it nicely.”
“Thinking about me, thinking about me, thinking about me,” the man screamed, spraying the air with spittle.
As the car rocked through the black tunnel, Harold pulled himself to his feet. Courageously, he inched toward the figure clinging to the centre pole. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he said, pushing past the swaying straphangers.
“Look at that man!” Cries of admiration for Harold arose. Ralph’s heart hammered against his ribs watching his father. Reaching the pole, Harold smiled crookedly. He wrapped his hands around it just below the screamer’s. Despite the heat, he noticed that the screamer wasn’t sweating at all.
“Listen, Chief —” he said to him.
“— talking about me!”
“I . . . OK.” Harold took a deep breath. Then pushing his face against the taller man’s chest, he shouted: “I know you’re looking at me. I know you’re thinking about me. I know you’re talking about me.”
The screamer stopped. He smiled. He cocked his head, relaxed his hands and nodding, repeated the refrain. “I know you’re talking about me. I know you’re thinking about me. I know you’re looking at me.”
Except for the grinding wheels, the rest of the car silenced. Harold grinned. Pulling back several inches, he relaxed his grip and the two shouted together: “I know you’re talking about me. I know you’re thinking about me. I know you’re looking at me.”
Harold started laughing and the screamer laughed too. They nodded to each other in strange communion. Ralph was certain he saw Harold’s good eye wink. Now they were entering the Bronx. At 165th Street, more people exited than entered. The rest remained quiet, then started shuffling their feet. By the time the train reached 175th Street, the passengers were turning to each other, laughing and shouting: “I know you’re thinking about me. I know you’re talking about me. I know you’re looking at me!”
The odd duet of the short, fat white man and the younger, well-dressed stranger seemed to relax them all. They peered into each other’s faces fearlessly, an unknown phenomenon on the New York subway. Then one brave soul stood up at 181st Street. Opening his arms to all as the car stopped, he started the familiar chant, then fell back in his seat. It didn’t matter. The woman sitting next to him laughed. Ralph looked on in amazement. He patted the seat next to him and a young woman sat down. In a breathy alcoholic voice she joined in at “looking at me.” Ralph laughed again. He rubbed his thighs in a familiar gesture. The entire car was chanting and laughing in time to the duet at the centre pole.
When the train reached the last stop, 207th Street, Woodlawn, in the north Bronx the conductor leaned out over the quiet, empty platform. He opened all doors.” Last stop. Everybody out,” he shouted. Seeing no one exit, the platform still empty, he yelled, “Last stop! You all must exit here.” Nothing, no one appeared. The engineer buzzed him on the intercom.
“What’s going on? Don’t tell me the train is empty? What’s that noise? C’mon, we’ve got to retire this baby to the yard.” The conductor listened, then stepped out onto the platform. He signalled the engineer, who was leaning out the window in the first car, to wait. Listening carefully, he heard what sounded like singing or chanting in the middle car. Shaking his head, shrugging, raising his hands, he walked toward the open doors. What he saw astonished him. The entire car was shouting and singing. Passengers were embracing, some swinging on poles. Young men hung from the enamel straps. Old ladies drummed their feet. In 20 years as a conductor, he had never seen such a thing.
He listened.
“I know you’re thinking about me. I know you’re talking about me. I know you’re looking at me.”
Momentarily paralyzed, the conductor stepped in and waved his arms. He shouted, “Listen, you’ve got to leave. This is the last stop. Exit now. This train is out of service. It’s going into the yard. You’ve got to get off.” No response. Angry now, he waded into the crowd, through the human stench.
“I know you’re talking about me, I know you’re looking at me —”
“Listen, you sons of bitches!” Finally reaching the center pole. A fat red-faced white guy and a young man in a clean blue suit were dancing around it. “You two assholes spark plugging this thing? Listen to me —” he screamed.
“I know you’re thinking about me,” they shouted back.
“Listen, you can’t do this,” he bellowed. “It’s not allowed.” He retreated to the door. “If you don’t get off right now, I’m closing these doors on you! You’ll be locked in the car yard all night. No lights, no air, no nothing.”
“I know you’re looking at me,” the whole car answered. Back on the platform, the engineer joined him.
“Well, what the hell do we do now?” Turning, the engineer started walking to the front of the train.
“I’m calling the Transit Police.” Glancing over his shoulder. “You know the rules. What the hell, we can report this as a subway hijacking. They’ll be here pretty damn’ fast. There’s nothing else we can do. Do you have a better idea? And stop looking at me.”
