At 2 a.m. on a Saturday, you’re ready to go home, and who could blame you, it’s been a long night. You and your group miraculously make your way to the Broadway-Lafayette station, its emerald sign acting as the Gatsby-esque beacon of hope you need. You and your friends stumble and shuffle down the sticky steps, holding hands and counting the steps out loud as you go.
You pull out your yellow metrocard that was sandwiched between your Sephora gift card and an old receipt for hot chocolate. You look down at your golden ticket and the map of the subway system flashes in the back of your mind. The unyielding power of one swipe quite easily goes to your head: With one swipe of $2.75, you can go almost anywhere on your beloved island and within the thrilling boroughs. “Should we go to Brooklyn? Brooklyn is fun,” you think to yourself. “Wait, what? No, Emma. It’s two in the morning, go home.”
You shake off that idea and instead, toy with the idea of jumping the turnstile. You’re so broke that the thought of shelling out more funds from your dwindling bank account physically hurts. But you remember how the last time you ungracefully attempted to sneak below the silver contraption, it did not go well and now you owe the Transit Adjunct Bureau one hundred dollars. You begrudgingly swipe through and wait along the track with the other dutiful citizens.
All you want to do is sit down and unstrap your glitter heels but the benches are filled with young boys who are up way past their bedtime and singing a song so horrendously off-key it’s almost endearing. And just as your faith wears dangerously thin and your messy bun droops to a new low that crosses the line between purposefully chic to rat’s nest hot mess, your knight in shining armor arrives.
You and all your station comrades usher into the car like dutifully children following mother’s orders. Its tricolored decor and peeling maps give you a sense of ease, reminding you that someone else is in charge now, you can grab onto the pole and just rest.
You can press pause and forget about the buzzing hubbub above ground. It’s hissing lullaby soothes and shushes your worries as it sends you safely uptown. There is a mysterious phenomenon that occurs on any ride over ten minutes and soon enough, a spell settles itself upon you. With each station it passes, the subway cunningly whispers in your ear, “it’s okay, I’ve got you. You can close your eyes.” Surrounded by the energy of drowsy strangers and feeling the rhythmic motion of the car zooming to your destination, your eyelids flutter as a sleepy haze envelops you. You almost let the peace overwhelm you but the rational fear of falling asleep and waking up in Harlem, far from home, keeps you alert.
After what was either fifteen minutes or an hour, (time isn’t quite linear underground), you pull into your station. You exit the metallic tube, make your way up a different set of stairs that are still just as unsettlingly sticky, and inhale the smell of doughnuts, soap, and something else you’d like to pretend to ignore.
As you climb out of the station, a swift gust of wind envelops you, perking you up and fully lifting the trance that settled itself upon you. As you and your friends march home, you reflect on the night and mentally thank your silver savior. The beloved BFF of New York City, always acting as the designated driver whenever, to wherever, without any questions asked. The subway serves its city well. Our valiant hero navigating through the complex underground, safely getting herds of individuals to where they need to go. You are the hero New York City deserves, and the one it will always need. Our not-so-silent guardian, our watchful protector that sticks to a loose schedule. Our Silver Knight. Thank you, subway. Keep serving your civic duty and until next sloppy weekend.
childs play 