The Subway Fire

He sidled beside her, paused, deftly raised his arm, and flipped open a silver Zippo lighter.

Visiting New York City stays with you. And for the rest of your life, you will check to be sure your wallet is still in your back pocket.

And nothing stays with you in the city like the subway. The subway is a swirl of life, economy, fashion, and adventure. Milling around waiting for the next train is an education in the vagaries of humanity.

Once, in the Canal Street station, I saw a middle-aged woman in fashionable but dated clothes; her hair teased into a black hive. She was standing at the edge of the platform, looking into the subway tunnel, listening eagerly for the ghostly rumble of her train.

From the other direction came a group of swaggering and laughing teenagers.

From the other direction came a group of swaggering and laughing teenagers. The crowd loosely parted as they passed through. I saw eyes darting side to side and visceral relief as the teenagers made their way toward the end of the platform.

The train exited the tunnel with the rumbling click of train wheels and a diesel-drenched gust of stale air.

As the train slowed, a mean-looking teen boy, hair slicked back, tattooed on his neck, and face pierced, left the pack and moved toward the quickly slowing train. The train stopped, and the doors opened. As the woman moved toward the waiting car, he sidled beside her, paused, deftly raised his arm, and flipped open a silver Zippo lighter. He touched it to her black hive of hair as she walked through the train doors. As the doors smoothly closed, he pulled back his arm.

The flicker of flame ignited her bouffant hairdo as the train pulled away and sped into the gaping tunnel.

The throng of waiting New Yorkers gathered on the platform milled around without a second glance. I turned and headed up the stairs and into the sunlight. I thought it would be best to walk.