Writings and Reflections

18th Street on the BMT

by Lloyd B. Abrams

I glanced at the wall clock: 9:55. I had once made it down to Penn Station in 26 minutes, barely in time to catch the 10:29 out to Islip. But then there was the time I missed it and had to wait two hours for the next train. It’s a real bitch when I’m exhausted and hungry and just want to get home.

I stood waiting for Leon to clear up a point about the liturgical text we were studying, but he was still chatting up a seventy-year-old woman who craved his attention. I couldn’t wait any longer. I pulled on my coat, waved good-bye and rushed out to the elevator.

I checked my cell phone: 9:58. I nodded to the security guard on my way out of the building. I had already broken a sweat when I hit the sidewalk. Half a block west, then six more down. I picked up my pace but I refused to run.

Maybe I should’ve grabbed a cab, but I figured by the time I got one, I could already be at the subway station. So I hurried down Fifth Avenue, ignoring the red DON’T WALK hands and the angry honking, until I got to 60th Street.

I already had my Metrocard out as I sped down the stairs. My shins were burning, and I was panting. I could feel the clammy wetness under my shirt.

I slid the card through the slot. Beep. SWIPE AGAIN. I heard a train rumble into the station, one more flight down. SWIPE AGAIN. The squeal of brakes. SWIPE AGAIN. I tried another turnstyle. SWIPE AGAIN. Son of a bitch. I searched through my wallet and found another Metrocard. That one finally worked. I dashed down the stairs and got to the platform just as the train doors whooshed shut. Damn it! Goddam it! I kicked at the door in disgust. The train waited for a few moments before it pulled out of the station, as if to taunt me. 10:14. ANALOG ROAM.

I could still make it if another train came right away. And if I got on the last car. And if I made a quick transfer at Times Square. If. If. If. I had fifteen minutes to make it. Just maybe.

I was still catching my breath, watching for headlights, listening for rumbling, pleading for a break. There comes one! Yes! A blaring horn sounded and another train rolled into the station. NO PASSENGERS. Damn it. Just my luck. But then it stopped.

The doors in front of me slid open. I was so distracted and harried that I stepped right on. There were no warning chimes when the doors closed behind me. Although the car was empty, I remained standing and grabbed for a handrail as the train lurched forward.

It passed 57th Street without stopping. This was supposed to be a local. And then 49th. It was on the local tracks. I was sure it would stop at 42nd Street / Times Square. All trains did. But this one, this one, didn’t. Instead, I felt the train accelerate.

10:21. SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL. If I could get off at 34th, I could walk the long block over to Seventh Avenue. It’d still be possible. But the train didn’t stop. It passed through 28th Street and then 23rd. Just then, I felt the train rounding a curve, slowing.

It squealed to a stop. One door opened. I looked out at the platform. A single bare bulb faintly illuminated the faded purple 18TH STREET mosaic on the wall. The door remained open, as if the train had no more use for me, as if it wanted to discard and banish me. Nah. Couldn’t be. But I stepped off the train anyway, not knowing when or where it would stop next. The door closed behind me and then it moved on, red lights receding. A gust of icy, stale air swept over me.

A rounded ceiling, a smell of mold, dust motes settling. An eerie silence except for dripping water and skittering rodents. The station was in a single-track tunnel. I had read about derelict, abandoned subway stations; this had to be one of those. The only other light was at the far end of the platform. I looked for some kind of exit sign, but I could not see one.

I waited for my eyes to grow accustomed to the semi-darkness and then started making my way down the platform. I had to step around mounds of trash, a pile of old newspapers, amorphous, indeterminate shapes in the shadows. I couldn’t avoid the broken glass that crackled under my shoes. But at the other end, there was still no stairway, no exit, no way out. I probably walked right by it, but it must have been bricked up or boarded over.

On the floor was an old newspaper – a Journal American. I could just make out the date: 1946. A Look Magazine from 1969. Another from 1971. A glint of silver on the floor. I reached for it. A 1978 quarter. This was f’in ridiculous. I was born in ’46, married in ’69. And ’71 and ’78 – those were the years our kids were born.

An approaching rumble, and then a roar. The station was flooded with glaring light, an overbearing brightness. I was momentarily stunned, blinded. I tried to wave for the train to stop, but it sped right by. And then there was blackness.

Rev 3 / September 22, 2004 // Rev 5 / August 22, 2010

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August 2010…Copyright © 2010, Lloyd B. Abrams
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