Passage I

Notes from Underground

A lot of people hate to ride the New York City subways, but I love them because I like to get places fast. A musician balancing a cello case, two Buddhist monks in saffron robes, and a group of stockbrokers in crisp, charcoal gray suits get on at Wall Street. A passenger placidly sews while the subway train flings and jolts. A teenager whose holding a shoebox containing a kitten as tiny as a gingersnap smiles even if a line of girls in frilly white communion dresses file by. About three and a half million people a day ride the subways I think maybe I might possibly have met them all.

Sometimes a Salvation Army volunteer boards the subway train with sandwiches and juice to give to the needy. “Put your pride to the side!” the volunteer shouts, and I’ve seen many people put out their hands. The speaker also raises money. Its impossible to predict which people will dig into their pockets or if they were to open their purses, and I’ve stopped trying to guess.

Last week some fellow passengers and I watched an elderly man with a portable chessboard playing chess against himself. Just yesterday I sat across the aisle with a woman who was composing music in pink-tinted glasses in a notebook. She tapped her foot as she reviewed what she’d written and then stopped tapping and jotted more notes as the train hurtled along.

Today is my mother’s birthday. I decided to surprise her with lilac blooms from my backyard, so this morning, carrying a shopping bag full of the flowers, I boarded a crowded “E” train and rode it to the very last stop in the Bronx. Strangers smiled and took pains not to crush the flowers, even when the train jerked to a halt. (14) I got off at an elevated station and, lifting the splendid bouquet, rushed down to my mother, feeling delighted that I’d brought the blooms all the way from Brooklyn on the subway train.