A small, anonymous cough is let loose, setting off a chain-reaction of coughs - some bigger, some smaller - throughout the entire PATH train car. He sits still and quiet and alone; he does not cough. Outside the car, a flashing yellow light announces:
DEPARTING
DEPARTING
DEPARTING DEPARTING
DEPARTING DEPARTING DEPARTING...
The flash gets faster and faster until it is no longer a flash, but only a hard, solid yellow light. An old, raspy buzzer buzzes. It is neither high nor low, but somewhere in the middle.
A woman dressed in many layers of green and orange and brown races into his car just as the doors are about to close. She sees the empty seat beside him. He sees this green and orange and brown confusion approach, and he makes room. The two recognize each other.
“Oh,” she says.
“Hello,” he says, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“I just returned from Savannah, Georgia.”
“Oh, yeah? Do you have family down there, or...?”
“I was visiting a friend.”
“That’s nice. I would love to go down south.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“How was the weather?”
“Well, I couldn't get in the water, but I could dip my feet in.”
There is a long, magical pause. Or is it a common pause? Regardless, there is a pause, during which he looks up from his folded hands and into the lap of the couple across from him. Their hands are joined. From their hands, his eyes rise to their faces. They are smiling. He looks elsewhere. He stops for a long while on the face of a sleeping woman. Her hair is short, black, and curly; her eyelids are large; her cheeks are angled sharply; her lips are full; her skin seems very smooth. She reminds him of someone else. He leaves her and notices a person who is reading a paperback; a person who is listening to music through headphones; a person who is standing, holding onto a shiny pole, sighing. Finally, he returns to his folded hands.
“Are you still working on that magazine?” she asks.
“No. I wrote one article for them, and then decided I didn't want to do it anymore. I needed to take some time off from things in general.”
“Why is that?” she asks.
DEPARTING
DEPARTING
DEPARTING DEPARTING
DEPARTING DEPARTING DEPARTING...
The flash gets faster and faster until it is no longer a flash, but only a hard, solid yellow light. An old, raspy buzzer buzzes. It is neither high nor low, but somewhere in the middle.
A woman dressed in many layers of green and orange and brown races into his car just as the doors are about to close. She sees the empty seat beside him. He sees this green and orange and brown confusion approach, and he makes room. The two recognize each other.
“Oh,” she says.
“Hello,” he says, “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“I just returned from Savannah, Georgia.”
“Oh, yeah? Do you have family down there, or...?”
“I was visiting a friend.”
“That’s nice. I would love to go down south.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“How was the weather?”
“Well, I couldn't get in the water, but I could dip my feet in.”
There is a long, magical pause. Or is it a common pause? Regardless, there is a pause, during which he looks up from his folded hands and into the lap of the couple across from him. Their hands are joined. From their hands, his eyes rise to their faces. They are smiling. He looks elsewhere. He stops for a long while on the face of a sleeping woman. Her hair is short, black, and curly; her eyelids are large; her cheeks are angled sharply; her lips are full; her skin seems very smooth. She reminds him of someone else. He leaves her and notices a person who is reading a paperback; a person who is listening to music through headphones; a person who is standing, holding onto a shiny pole, sighing. Finally, he returns to his folded hands.
“Are you still working on that magazine?” she asks.
“No. I wrote one article for them, and then decided I didn't want to do it anymore. I needed to take some time off from things in general.”
“Why is that?” she asks.
He’s surprised by the question – it demands some intimacy, doesn’t it? – but he answers: “I felt as though I was doing a lot of things for the wrong reasons. I was doing things for other people. And I just wasn't happy.”
“I can understand that,” she says.
He wants to say more, but he realizes that he is about to cry. He is now struggling against letting the tears go loose. And then it occurs to him. He thinks to himself:
There is nothing wrong with crying. It’s just like anything else we do. It’s no different than laughing or talking or reading or sleeping or sighing or coughing.
Still he doesn’t cry. He wonders what would happen if he did. Would it set off a chain-reaction of cries? And what would that be like? Would we all hug and console one another? Would we do anything to stop the person closest to us from crying? Would we make love? Would we promise each other eternal life and love?
He thinks about it again. He decides he doesn’t want to use the word eternal. He deletes it from the thought.
The train comes to a stop at the Pavonia/Newport station. The woman wraps up her layers of green and orange and brown and rises quickly. Over her shoulder, she lets out, “Have a good night.”
“See you soon,” he says.
He closes his eyes and tunes in to the band that is playing in his mind. The music is soaring, the singer is singing:
“I can understand that,” she says.
He wants to say more, but he realizes that he is about to cry. He is now struggling against letting the tears go loose. And then it occurs to him. He thinks to himself:
There is nothing wrong with crying. It’s just like anything else we do. It’s no different than laughing or talking or reading or sleeping or sighing or coughing.
Still he doesn’t cry. He wonders what would happen if he did. Would it set off a chain-reaction of cries? And what would that be like? Would we all hug and console one another? Would we do anything to stop the person closest to us from crying? Would we make love? Would we promise each other eternal life and love?
He thinks about it again. He decides he doesn’t want to use the word eternal. He deletes it from the thought.
The train comes to a stop at the Pavonia/Newport station. The woman wraps up her layers of green and orange and brown and rises quickly. Over her shoulder, she lets out, “Have a good night.”
“See you soon,” he says.
He closes his eyes and tunes in to the band that is playing in his mind. The music is soaring, the singer is singing:
...and if the snow buries my neighborhood / And if my parents are crying / Then I’ll dig a tunnel from my window to yours / Yeah a tunnel from my window to yours.
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