to Mara Beckman, 09.20.09

Dear Mara,

It was a simple mistake: I'd entered on the wrong side of the subway--the 1st Ave. L station has one entrance for the Brooklyn-bound train, & another one for the 8th Ave.-bound train. After going back through the station, crossing the street, & descending into the proper side, I swiped my Metro Card at the turnstile, only to be met by a glowing, green display that read, "JUST USED," instead of the more common "GO." So I approached the woman behind the glass.

"Excuse me--my card won't work. It said "JUST USED," I think because I went in on the wrong side."

The woman rolled her drooping, glaucoma-addled eyes & pointed to the white board behind her, upon which she'd written in blue dry-erase marker, "no Brooklyn-bound station transfers!"

"Uh. What does that mean?"

"You got to wait eighteen minutes before you can get through."

"But I don't have eighteen minutes--my class is in fifteen. Couldn't you just buzz me through the service gate? I feel like that's been done before."

"The woman shook her heavy head; the tiny bones in her neck creaked faintly. "Absolutely not. MTA says you gotta wait eighteen minutes, or else you gotta buy a new card."

"But I already spent eighty-something dollars on this card. Isn't there some kind of third option?"

"That's the way MTA wants it. If they invent a third option they will let me know, but until then you either gotta wait eighteen minutes or buy a new card. I don't make the rules."

"Are you being serious?"

The woman nodded, making a bored & puckered face, her lips pursed in the shape of a grossly swollen blossom.

"Well, couldn't you make some kind of exception?"

Rather than responding, the woman behind the glass made it a point to avoid eye contact with me, a practice she'd clearly mastered. Predicting that this cabaret of asking & not recieving would unfold like closed doors opening to other closed doors, I decided to cut my losses, abandon my self-respect, & pursue a different approach entirely. I leaned close so that when I spoke my breath would become visible on the glass, like ghost matter caught between microscope slides. I said, "It's only been three minutes. That means I have to wait another fifteen before I can go through the turnstiles. So I'm going to spend those fifteen minutes here, & I'm not going to stop talking until I'm able to walk onto that platform, one way or another."

"You go ahead and do whatever it is you gotta do. I'm here all night."

"So I removed the leash that my mind keeps tight around m mouth's neck & I began a seamless row of comments, questions, & trite observations that nauseated even me. For example: "Do you ever notice how the subway's always so loud? I'd think you might want to do something about that, because whenever a train comes I always have to plug my cars, which I feel embarrassed about. Maybe you should think about handing out free earplugs because I'm sure those awful, mechanical shrieks are a hazard to everyone's hearing."

&: "Can I tell you something?"--no response--"Sometimes I have dreams where I'm watching myself dream from the ceiling over my bed for hours & hours. Occasionally I'll see my body grin, or murmur words like 'Thank you!' & so I get the idea that the dream my body is having is a really good one, & I hate not knowing what it is. I hate not knowing my own dreams. So I try to cut myself loose from the ceiling, as though my invisible self was tied by some invisible rope. I twist & shimmy for whole nights sometimes, until I manage to bend my consciousness into the exact position. then I fall from the ceiling, through my body, then my bed, then the floor, basement, & miles & miles of ground until I find myself in the cold, empty center of the world, like a dystopian, metallic egg that monsters get born out of. That's when I wake up--do you think there's something wrong with me?"

At that, the woman nodded ever-slightly.

By minute thirteen, my tone had shifted to that of a maudlin street poet in the moments before fainting. I ask the woman, in a very sincere way, "How is it that we've come to this? I mean, we're speaking to one another through glass, like we were in prison! why can't we treat each other like humans? After all, my best idea for getting back at you for being so rude was just to talk to you. How crazy is that? We're dying a little more each second, so why is it that we choose to spend what time we've got together living like strangers? Come on--we could change it right now! Come out of that box, & we'll go through that gate together! There's still time; what do you say?"

The woman behind the glass raised her heavy, beaten hands against the sides of her face & shut her eyes; suddenly, I was taken by the urge to know more about them, those hands. This is the most "New York" thing I've done so far. It's also the meanest thing so far.

When minute fifteen arrived, I left without a word. I swiped my card. "GO." Before crossing onto the mezzanine, I waved the woman goodbye. The woman waved back, in more of a sendoff than a riddance. I was surprised.

That night I never made it home, waking instead to a stunning, 21st-story view of the Upper East Side, the likes of which I'd only ever imagined (& imagined poorly in comparison).

Large-sized hearts,

Joel