Rush Hour
//Write a piece about a place. You are encouraged to write about a work place. (Spoiler alert: I didn’t write about a workplace.)
//Written for my writing class.
“Now arriving at… St. Andrew’s. St. Andrew’s station. Doors will open on the left.”
A single tone chimes through the subway cars as each door opens. I stand against a door on the right, facing the inside of the car. Everyone is on the subway today. I can barely see around the man in front of me as dozens of passengers squeeze onto the coach. The passengers scooch into each other, desperately trying to create more space for the new wave.
“Please stand clear of the doors.”
The descending tri-tone plays over the speakers. I hold my breath as the doors slide closed behind a lady. Her purse juts too close to the exit. They clack together with ease and I breathe again. The subway hisses and presses forward.
My body lurches to the right and my grip tightens on the red safety bar. The wheels screech as the subway accelerates.
“Our next station is… Union. Union Station.”
Most of the passengers keep their eyes on the floor or the wall. They wear slack faces and grim gazes. I only hear the subway cars jostle and the passengers’ coats shift.
“Now arriving at… Union. Union Station. Doors will open on the right.”
I turn to face the doors. The people behind me shuffle closer. I stare at my reflection in the tinted glass. We all wait, motionless, for the doors to open. Behind the glass, people stand on the platform, staring into the subway.
The tone rings, the doors spread apart. Noise explodes around me.
Conversations from the people on the platform crash into each other as I hop out of the subway. I can’t hear my own footsteps over the sound of hundreds of others. We ascend the stairs into the hub of the station. I hear music coming from above. It becomes louder as I reach the top. I see two musicians just outside the green Presto gates. Each one holds a saxophone roughly the size of their bodies. They’re in the middle of a jazzy number. A few people bump into me and I scurry out of the way. I push past the gates and stop in front of the musicians. An open saxophone case rests on the floor in front of them.
Their faces contort as they force more and more air into their brass beasts. The music reverberates in my chest and my face splits into a smile. The noise of the passing people disappears under the horns. The musicians bounce to the beat of their music. Commuters pause to watch and sprinkle a few coins in the case. A few children totter over to the case and clumsily deposit change. Their mother stands not too far, nodding to the music. Several people stop to take out their phones and capture the moment.
The saxophonists land the final note and hold it.
I feel like I’ve lost something once the music stops. They each take a small bow. I remember I have a train to catch and I place some change in the case before I leave.
They start up another song as I dive back into the stream of people.
The song is stuck in my head for days.
