She once said she would paint her ass red if that was what it took to keep him. That was before she changed jobs, before her best friend returned to New York, and before the abortion.

He reminded himself not to make too much of the abortion. Her new job (which he helped her find) and the friends return were explanation enough for his no longer being the only bright spot in her life. Hell, he thought, unable to hold his ground against the wall of flesh pushing into the train at the elevated 4th Avenue station, the abortion was just an excuse.

The doors closed and the train began to labor up a steep incline. Below, the rooftops of Gowanus sloped north to the lone tower standing as a monument to the boroughs arrogant parochialism: the Tallest Building in Brooklyn. Once, it was a beacon to him. She lived within its shadow. The clock on top, its red hands visible at night from his rooms in Park Slope, was a symbol, like the cigarette ends in the fireplace and the socks she borrowed to keep warm after the heat went off. They watched that red glow together from beneath an old navy blanket. When he was alone, it comforted him. But this morning the clocks face seemed permanently darkened. He raised his wrist carefully to avoid contact with a trim Afro on one side and the sports section of the Daily News on the other. As he had suspected, the tower wasnt even close to being right.

He gripped the metal bar above his head, though the crush of bodies made falling impossible. His fellow passengers stared out at the distant skyline of Manhattan or the backs of their neighbors skulls with equal indifference. A few managed to read carefully folded newspapers, their elbows pinned to their chests. The density of warm flesh combined with hot sunlight pouring in the windows was too much for the air conditioning. But no one seemed to notice.

At Smith and 9th Street the doors opened on a throng three and four deep. There wasnt a square foot left to squeeze into, but the waiting crowd began to advance anyway, its front rank pushed forward by those behind. Somehow some wriggled in. His legs sank into spongy buttock.

A second row pressed forward. Lockstep, marking time like zombies or mechanical soldiers, they kept coming, a few finding a couple inches of unoccupied space, the rest stymied by a phalanx of back and thigh. They continued to surge forward anyway until the doors, repeatedly closing on their legs and shoulders, beat them back. He had seen film clips of Tokyo platform conductors using their knees to force in the last possible passenger. He had listened to, and himself made jokes about, the IRT. But he had also ridden the IRT and, bad as that line was, it never approached anything like this. He actually could not draw a full breath. And that big behind was bottoming out into bone.

The train moved toward the tunnel leading to the next station, hesitating every few seconds as if wary of the dark ahead. Someone opened a window, letting in hot air.

No one in his right mind would subject himself to this ordeal five days a week. If he had kept his Manhattan apartment he wouldnt be enduring it himself. But she lived here. And she couldnt cope with Manhattans pace and congestion. So he had moved to Brooklyn, at first to a dark furnished room, then to a two-room apartment in Park Slope. That was before rents went through the ceiling. Now he couldnt even afford a better place in Brooklyn, never mind Manhattan. When he lived in the East Village he could walk to work. He had turned his life upside-down for that woman and even become an exile in this godforsaken borough. For what? All he had to show for those two years was a longer and more unpleasant commute, recurrent bad dreams, and somewhere the lifeless atoms of a child he would never know.

At Carroll Street a few passengers got off. He was too deeply buried in the crush to consider making an escape himself. The throng on the platform seemed appalled by the sight of so much compressed flesh. Few attempted to get on. The doors closed without difficulty and the train started forward. Someone showed the good sense to close that window. He tried to relax, let his body just hang between those pressed against it. But each time he let go, the pelvis of his fat neighbor stabbed at his spine.

Then, suddenly, the main lights failed, leaving only the blue glow of emergency lighting. The air conditioning shut down as well, causing the compacted flesh to generate an immediate, intense heat. As if in response, his fat neighbor collapsed. She made no sound, just breathed a little sigh, more of satisfaction than distress. Thanks to the press, she couldnt fall, but he tried without success to support her.

I think this woman has fainted.

A few heads turned. The rest ignored him. He couldnt think what else to do. Ask them to step back and give er room? He wished he had walked the few extra blocks to the BMT. At least when that train became overcrowded you could step between cars for a breath of air. But the doors of this line were sealed. It couldnt have been a worse morning. First, those morbid dreams about her. Now this dreadful subway ride.

His unconscious neighbor found a few inches of unclaimed space to slump into. By some calculus of forces her weight transferred itself to his groin. He twisted free, forcing himself into the back of a blue linen suit jacket. The shoulders inside pushed back. The train itself was still motionless. Even the sporadic belches and hisses stalled subways usually made were absent. He cursed the New York subway system. Then he cursed himself for being fool enough to submit to this torture.

But even as he raged against his predicament he realized that a familiar object had just crossed his vision like a long-anticipated, almost-missed roadsign. The blue light had made the faces around him seem immaterial, spirits waiting to be called to a seance. But one, hovering between a shiny scalp and a heavily mascaraed profile, seemed especially other-worldly.

Where had she gotten on? Not at Smith & 9th. And no one got on at Carroll Street. This wasnt even her neighborhood. Had she been on the train all along? Why didnt he spot her earlier instead of now when they were virtually in the dark?

His impulse was to call out to her. But he couldnt think what they would do then. Stare at each other? He wondered if she had seen him yet (she was badly nearsighted) and if so, what she was feeling.

The collapsed woman moaned. She listed to one side, then the other. The other passengers finally began to show interest. Even her head reluctantly turned. For a second her small blue eyes seemed to focus on him, then looked away.

Oh, Lawd! Where am I? Lord Jesus, set me free!

Relax, lady, someone said. Were all in the same pickle.

Luckily, even an immense bulk like hers was checked by the press of other bodies. She cried out again for deliverance. Someone told her to shut up. She called louder. Lord Jesus, save me! A noise like a pistol shot silenced her. At first he thought someone had actually fired a gun. But then the woman began to whimper, and finally to sob.

Thats good, the Daily News to his right said. Thats what you have to do. Brings them right out of it.

It was as if everyone elses fear was also dispelled by that slap. Someone started to sing.

A-may zi-ing grace,
Ho-ow sweet the sound,
That saved a-a wretch
like me...

Other voices joined in. The Afro to his left thundered into his ear: For I wa-as lost

But now I'm fo-ound...

Even the fat woman stopped crying and, in a powerful church voice, joined in. He searched through the tangle of heads until he found her again, her lips drawn into a pained kiss, her eyes locked on the cars ceiling. As the chorus swelled, her eyes wavered, then began darting about: She was having an attack. She got them on elevators, subways, in any enclosed space. She also had a fear of heights, squirrels and, oddly, sunsets. He used to pride himself on knowing all her phobias and being there to comfort.

...how sweet you-ou are, the choir continued as if they all sang together regularly. But her mouth remained shut tight. Her face had turned white, her eyes wild.

Excuse me, he said, trying to shoulder his way toward her. But the chorus pressed against him was unyielding.

For I wa-as lost, but now Im fo-ound...

He lost his balance as the train lurched forward. By the time he righted himself the lights had come on, but his view was blocked by an expanse of white shirt. The air conditioner blew its cold breath on his head.

Excuse me, please.

She was facing the door, her hands pressed to the glass. The train was pulling into the station it must have stalled just a few feet short of it. The doors opened. She got off and was lost in the crowd on the platform.

He raised his arm to make a path toward the door, but his feet failed to respond. What, after all, would he say? That he had seen and understood her anxiety? That he forgave her for the abortion? That he still loved her? But it was not his place to forgive or not forgive. And did he still love her? Did he really?

The train glided out of the station. He was finally free of the fat woman. There was even room to move his arms and legs. But the singing had stopped and the passengers were again preoccupied with stock quotations, parimutuels, a dress for next Fridays movie. He wondered if he hadnt imagined it all the slap, the harmony of voices consoling each other in the dark the face of someone who once loved him and then, inexplicably, loved him no more. It was easier to believe none of it had occurred, that this morning was like any other that the rest of his life would still happen.



Thomas J. Hubschman <tjhubsh@dorsai.com> has published two sf novels as well as short fiction and articles online in Blue Moon Review, Southern Ocean Review, In Vivo, Webrunner, Morpo Review and Gruene Street. His work has also been published by the BBC World Service, New York Press and The Free Press. Tom makes his living as a free-lance editor and recently founded GOWANUS, an Internet publication aimed at English-speakers in the so-called third world.