Squashed
By Gene Aronowitz
I was standing at the perfect spot on the subway platform so I could get off one station away, precisely in front of the escalator that would take me to my next train. If that savvy and assertive mob beat me to the escalator, I knew I would lose ten minutes because my next train would leave before I got there. I hate to see closing doors from the outside.
The platform was packed. A train was pulling out and ours waited its turn in the tunnel, like the runt of the litter. When it arrived and its doors opened, a gargantuan guy was blocking the doorway directly in front of me.
I couldn't pass by and was reluctant to move to another door with more room. I am always unwilling to move. Even when I encounter a reeking homeless person, I endure the stench rather than move, not wanting to find myself in the wrong spot when I get off the train. Once, I smelled the unmistakable scent of fresh shit. A woman wrinkled her nose and waved her arms back and forth, like a windshield wiper, the universal gesture of foul odor recognition. When my children were young, they liked to do this when one of them farted. It wasn’t obvious who did it because they would all wave their hands, all of them, including the blame-eluding perpetrator. This woman must have taken a lesson from my progeny because she waved until she left the car and when she was gone, so was the smell.
I squeezed through the door, but my rolling backpack was still mostly outside, and I worried that it was about to get squashed by the closing doors. I yanked it as hard as I could and heard the blocker shout that my case was on his foot. I yelled that he was blocking the door. He looked down at me, and I suddenly realized that I was putting my life in jeopardy. Every time I hear about a police investigation on some train, I think that someone has been shot in a territorial dispute. I jerked the cart, and it landed on my foot.
People kept pouring in. The doors could not close, and the conductor was getting nasty. “There’s somebody in the front that’s delaying everybody. Get away from the door or get off the train.” What an asshole, I thought, grateful he wasn’t talking about me and forgot all about the blocker. I was pissed at the conductor. No, strike that. It was his bosses I was pissed at. They know that every day, at the same time, there is this same crush, and the conductor loses it, trying to get us to stand clear of the fucking closing doors. What about more trains? What about that?
But finally, the doors shut, and we were on our way. I couldn't support myself in an upright position. Leaning on the blocker was out of the question. I was pushed forward by the man or woman behind me, so I was up against the door, momentarily amused by the symbolism of my penis ramming the sign that said, “Do not lean on door.” I tried to keep my head pulled back, but I knew that if I did, I would have a very stiff neck, so I ended up with my face scrunched on the window. I’m not germ-phobic, but germs have a way of getting under my skin. When I use a public bathroom, I turn the sink water on and off with a paper towel and use the towel to open the door. Most people don’t even look at the sink. I imagined that one of those filthy pigs got on this subway and wiped this window with his palm because it was all fogged up. Really nauseating!
I knew I would be released in about five minutes when the train arrived at the next station so, with an audible sigh, I just surrendered. But my revery was short-lived. A guy right next to me, apparently thankful for the captured audience, started screaming about how Jesus saved his life and that all of us needed to prepare to meet our God.
