I'm waiting in the third or fourth car of a train on track 27, Grand Central Terminal. A Hudson River Line train to Croton-Harmon. My plan is for Slide Mountain tomorrow. It's supposed to be warm. My banjo sits on the rack above my head. This pad rests on a Guy Waterman biography on my lap. I'm off tomorrow night, a Monday night. The train ride will last 53 minutes, stop in Harlem and a few other local stops. I sit in a left-side, window seat, expecting to look at the river and roll north. The sneeze I just release sounds very loud. A louder metallic noise occurs between the cars. Girls seated closest to the door laugh at their own surprise. A man nearby stands and tries to close the door. He hits the inside of the frame when it only comes an inch out and stubbornly retreats. A man across the aisle from me sings to himself in Spanish. Now a woman in black with short hair tries and fails at the door. We have been slowly rolling for five minutes. The train accelerates. The wheels skipping the rail joints sound close and the dim blur of the tunnel's interior walls abruptly give way to soft glowing orbs frozen in the wet Harlem night. The man singing in Spanish is now able to make a phone call. He speaks to his phone loudly, interrupting himself to say "Hello," frustrated with the reception.
The train stops at 125th street. Over the PA a masculine voice says Marble Hill will be next. The wheel system wrenches and the breaks hiss as we cross the East or Harlem River. I don't know which one for sure. A few voices in conversations with phones or other passengers float up over the seats. I begin to notice the droning blow of the fan in the ceiling. I remember hearing it turn on but not sure when that was. I confirm it's the off-peak period with the conductor as I hold out my ticket. He grins, nods, "of course."
"I got you if it's not but I don't want to break a twenty," I say.
"I hear you man," he says, chuckling and moving on to collect more tickets, hole-punching them with his clicker thing.
He tries the door. It seems jammed for him too. The train slows at the Marble Hill platform. Water makes the signs more shiny and darkens the concrete. I look up and see the collector has succeeded with the door. It's closed for only a second. A girl's face in the hood of a sweatshirt looks in at me from outside. Her eyes hold some kind of emotion. The train stops softly. The collector floats down the aisle, from the direction he came. Worried it won't close again, I wait for some action from the door. Then it appears from the wall on its own, with a gentle rattling, like beads rolling with little room for themselves. Outside it appears we're moving again. Dots of light on the blacked out bridge fall on the water and stretch down in unfading trails. They taper abruptly on waining ridges of rippling water.
I feel sleepy. The windows reverse a reflection of the inside of the car. My eyes are mirrors. They make contact with a man sitting next to the door that's now closed. He's seated facing oppositely of the train's direction. The Greystone platform crossfades in the window. The inside of the car solidifies when we leave the platform behind. My ass feels the last vibration of a 'missed call.' Chris left me a typed digital message and waited through the unanswered rings of my phone.
"Yes Yes," I type back. Then, "Donna Ferry Next." Correcting the mistake my third consecutive message reads "Dobbs Ferry". It's a place I may have never been to. The phone automatically capitalizing the 'D' and 'F'. Chris will not respond. He drives the dark wet double yellow roads, I assume. A man in a fleece shouldering a duffle chews gum. He walks through my door. The door works great by the way. Never broken, I confide in myself. Dry docked boats, Terrytown. The PA, "Ossining next."
"What you doing? With who? I just got on the train." A young guy sits across from me. The spanish guy now gone. The young guy might just take a taxi. His last word into his IPhone. "Alright."
"Tickets." The collector says in a way that surprises me. He punches a ticket.
Occasionally and randomly the car drops an inch or two. It shakes. I look through my own reflected eye at a light across the black river. Another red beacon glows nearby. Maybe somewhere floating on the Hudson, anchored