Between the Turnstiles
by Emily Sakaguchi
Let us begin our journey early in the morning, standing on the Southbound platform at a subway station somewhere in Midtown. Although the daily crowd of commuters is packed together so tightly that they seem to almost touch noses, the commuters find a way to stand in isolation on the platform. Some do so by gazing mindlessly at the dirty tiles of the opposite platform, others by shoving their noses into smartphones as part of a battle-tested strategy for avoiding conversation. Small clumps of friends or acquaintances occasionally dot the greyish landscape.
Let us now join in the collective groan that, despite being soundless, courses across the platform when a disembodied voice announces a delay. Just to the right is a young man who is particularly unnerved by the announcement. Careful, let us watch him discreetly; we don’t want to attract his attention.
He glances at his phone, then locks his eyes on the time as if to stop the minutes from slipping away. He fiddles with the collar of his shirt, trying to understand why it doesn’t seem to lie properly underneath his suit jacket. Then this man notices that the folder he is clutching is beginning to warp. He loosens his grip, wipes the sweat from his hands, and proceeds to open the folder to see if the résumé inside is still crisp. A few drawings and charcoal sketches peek out from within the folder. No one else on the platform seems to take notice of this.
At long last, a subway train stumbles into the station, wheezing and squealing. The doors open apathetically to the platform of already-exhausted commuters. Once inside the train, the same game of pretending each person is utterly alone continues.
Speaking of which, why don’t we move over there? (These university students are too loud, and that man in the corner is mumbling to himself.) Much better.
Look, some of the seasoned commuters lucky enough to find seats are adopting that half-trance-power-nap state where they close their eyes as if asleep already. Those left to stand have shut out the rest of the world with earbuds, or are flicking around the home screen on their phones, pretending they have signal. Those without an alibi keep a poker face and stare over the tops of numerous heads at one of the light-up subway maps. They wouldn’t want to end up catching the glance of someone like that business woman near the door, who is currently engaged in a death-staring match with the first-year university student who forgot to take off her backpack.
Now the black and grimy abyss outside the windows gives way to the brightness of a green wall. We’re entering the next station. The train stops with a lazy lurch, the jolt like a kind of physical rolling of the eyes as it lets on more passengers, and no one gets off.
Here we go again. The train is speeding up and those who have just embarked are scrambling to find something to lean on, doing their best not to make contact with anyone as they start to tumble over themselves at each turn. After a time, the voice—the soulless, preprogrammed voice— announces the stop where most of the commuters alight. Soon they are pouring out of the doors, brushing against the jet stream of those hurrying onto the train.
Come, we’re getting off, too. Don’t worry about blocking other people; subway etiquette dictates they’re in the wrong for trying to board before we’re out the doors. Elbows are an asset here.
The man with the résumé has finally managed to squeeze his way through to the exit and dashes out the door, seconds before it closes. But something is not quite right. He has only just made it off the train in time, but now realizes that his folder is caught between the closed doors. He tries to extract it, but as the train breathes to life once more and begins to slide away from him, the papers begin to tear and fall onto the tracks.
For a brief moment in the crowded station, everything freezes solid. Faces behind the glass windows of the subway train notice this man, feeling pity and horror on behalf of someone they so willingly ignored just a few moments earlier.
Look, the people on the platform notice him, too. They are helping him to collect the few papers that escaped and are now lying on the tiled floor. The man looks as if he will cry as he stares at one of his smudged drawings, now stained with slush and grease, and then turns to peer onto the tracks at a few other remnants of his portfolio.
Some of the strangers on the platform wonder how many years of work he has just lost. They reason he may have had copies. It’s a comforting thought, but then we can see from his face that it was likely not so. He still hasn’t moved, though much of the attention he had attracted has by now returned to the ever-important pursuit of staring at feet and at screens offering the comforting glow of blue light.
He may be wondering if he should bother going to his job interview without a résumé and the larger part of his portfolio. Another train hurtles forward, crushing whatever might have been left on the tracks. The man finally steps back, finding a spot on a bench where he can look despondently at the four pieces of art he has intact. Let us wait and see how long he stays this way.
Another train comes and goes. Now another. And another. He is still there. Eventually, a young couple emerges from one of these subway trains and takes the two seats next to him. They are giggling, and the station echoes with the sound. The couple has been riding Line One and getting off at each station to look around. They’re flat broke. It makes for a strange and quirky two-dollar date.
Their laughter dies down as one of them notices their distraught neighbour, whose eyes are, to them, inexplicably hollow. He is now absently chewing his charcoal-covered fingernails. The couple exchanges a knowing look and moves away. Soon enough, they’re gone on the next train.
The man on the bench has not stirred. How long has it been? Half an hour, at the very least. He seems to be shivering, yet his suit jacket has visible sweat stains. It looks as if he may be mumbling to himself.
See how the subway crowd moves past him? They do not know what went down in this very spot. To them, he is merely another shady character to avoid. But we know.
So, what do you think? Should we go over and say something?