I got on the C train instead of the G train. As I lay my head back onto the cool glass I sway back and forth, letting the train take me where it wants me to go. I’ve always liked the buzz of the subway. I like sinking into the sea of people and staying there. Adrift.
When I was younger I used to make swings go as high as they could and then jump off, feeling the air for a minute before I hit the ground. I got a lot of bloody knees, but that’s when I knew I wanted to fly. I guess that means different things for different people, though. I used to feel so alive when I played. I used to get a rush out of feeling the ivory keys click clack under the weight of my fingertips. My parents used to sit and listen to me for hours while I soared. I never wanted it to end. Sometimes I get those moments still, moments of brilliant clarity where the music just floats from my fingertips. That kind of high never really lasts though.
There’s a communal grunt in the car when the train stops. The lights flash a pale, fluorescent color that makes my brain thud in my head. The little girl next to me taps my shoulder and tells me that there’s blood coming out of my nose. As I reach into the left pocket of my bag I think about her innocent brown eyes. Her mom pulls her in a little tighter and the gap between us widens. I feel almost sorry for a minute.
There are several people standing about the car but mostly empty seats. Across from me sits a homeless man of about sixty. He’s asleep and laying his head against the glass like me. The loose jacket falls below his elbow on the right side and I can see the remnants of track marks in the fold of his arm. I can’t stop staring. I imagine him as a boy. I imagine him wearing red corduroy pants and running and jumping and falling off swings like I used to. I imagine him setting the fireworks off near the river with his dad on Fourth of July. I imagine him getting high for the first time at a block party when he was fourteen.
My first time was on the roof of my family friend’s house. We were staying with them upstate for a few weeks when my dad got laid off. After everyone fell asleep someone tapped on my shoulder to wake me up. Their son took my hand and led me upstairs. It took a couple of tries, but right when it hit I felt everything. I felt the way I used to feel falling off the swing, like Nina Simone was ringing in my ears. I spent a long time chasing that feeling. Everything else got a little less colorful afterwards.
The old worker’s coat that lies across his frail legs has a nametag that says Josh in red stitching. I’d like to think that’s his name. He looks like he would have been a great Josh.
I sit here holding my blood soaked tissue in my right hand and thinking about his future. What will happen to him when he dies? Will he ever find his family? His kids? If I were him I would want to be cremated so that I didn’t have to die with my track marks.
His hands are rough; they look strong like my first piano instructor’s used to. He used to put tape on the keys so that I would know where to press; I never needed it, but I left it there so that he would feel good. I liked the patterns of the color-coated tape, too.
As I sit here in my blue jeans and red sneakers, I can’t help but feel out of my skin. I think about wearing my maroon silk dress and suede shoes at my last piano recital. The first time I felt the keys of the grand piano on top of the Philharmonic Stage. My parents were sitting in the front row; my mom started crying before I even opened up the piano. I had practiced my whole life to be up on that stage. The song started off running, dancing, and spinning. My fingers glided across the keys and I was back to that high. All of a sudden I was twelve years old, jumping off my cousin’s roof, I felt like I was flying and falling and before I knew it the song had ended.
The wheels of the train start turning again and my mind turns over and over in my head. The tired looking woman leaning against the pole next to me reminds me of my mother. She would be so sad to see me here like this; her little girl with bloodshot eyes and a brain filled with chemicals. I imagine myself becoming someone I don’t want to be. I imagine a young girl looking at me thirty years in the future from across the subway and thinking that I look like I would have been a good Clara; the way the man across from me looks like he would have been a good Josh.
I wish I hadn’t run down the steps of the theater on that last day I played. I’ve been running ever since. I think this is where I was supposed to end up though. On the C train instead of the G train. Across from this poor man who never stopped running.