Dirt

November 18, 2006: For some reason or another the subway was not crowded during the week - and I managed almost every day to catch the train without finding myself pinned between 100 people in the aisle way of the car, fighting for dissipating quantities of oxygen and swaying with the rocking of the train like a school of mindless jelly-fish riding the breaking surf of the ocean.

But as they say, nothing comes without it price, so instead of fixating my morning attention on the numbers and faces of strangers, I started to notice the subway itself, the walls and tunnels, inhabitants (both human and otherwise), stockpiles of trash, smoky and dank underground air, and dirt. Tons of it.

Out of the 1, and ready to weave my way to the R, I stop short after I feel something hit my sleeve. I look up and to my horror, I see the foulest representation of a cavern stalactite - a dripping curdling mass of subway dirt. A filthy rendition of slow forming earth in the form of goo and guck that had filtered from city street and gutter, oozing through cracks of concrete, attaching itself to the platform pillars, manifesting on old thick metal, and seeping into the pores of the affiliates of mass transportation.

I waited for the drop to soak into the fabric of my sweater and for my last minutes of tranquility to transform in nauseating waves of germ induced panic. Dousing the spot in Purell, I feel momentary rest-assurance that I will not die from third degree burns and a plaguing infection caused by a drop of deathly subway muck.