NOTE: This is a draft that has, and likely will continue to change. There are many problems with this current draft. I’ve reworked many parts of this short story and thus a lot of it is disjointed as changes have been made and as parts of different drafts find themselves connected together when they shouldn’t be. Thanks for understanding.
The schedule screen flickers signalling an update to those waiting to board their early morning commuter rail. The yellow text slowly crawls across the screen. Before it gets to the point where those watching it can read their train platform, the entire board freezes. Stuck in a constant loop flickering over and over, the screen renders itself useless. Soon after, the intercom triggers on with a buzzing noise filled with static that almost feels like it scrapes at the ears. The people around who clearly don’t frequent the station flinch at the sound, covering one ear with the only hand that isn’t carrying some other bag. One girl was lucky enough to only have a backpack allowing her to cover both ears from the startling noise. The regulars and I on the other hand were expecting as much. A muffled, almost incoherent voice finally comes on the speaker.
“The sips porteen train ill derive at atform mix V.”
The intercom then shut off without any further clarification. With the board broken and the inaudible announcement, many commuters were puzzled. The same individuals who covered their ears looked around to see if anyone had a clue as to what was going on.
“Geez, they really got to give this place a remodeling,” I said as I sighed to myself.
I had been going to this station for years ever since I got this job in the big apple. Every day I work the same job doing the same tasks. I even wear approximately the same thing every day. An ink black pant suit with a colorless white collared shirt and black heels. Pretty common business attire for a woman in the city. To go along with this repetitious lifestyle I took the same commute to get there every day. Nothing ever changed. The station was gross and the train was no better. I was hoping at this point in my career I would have a better way of getting to work, but instead I have to go through this disaster. Since I work for one of the bigger businesses in the city, I used to think that my hard work would get me somewhere better quickly, allowing me to leave behind this dump before long. Sadly, as the months turned to years I realized how hard of a mistress reality can be.
The only somewhat redeeming factor of me going through here everyday is the fact that I picked up on all of its quirks. I’ve seen the schedule board glitch out what seems like thousands of times and have come to understand the alien language that is the train station intercom. I wasn’t alone in all this either. The others who were able to translate those garbled words all began to move towards the platform in a uniform fashion. You can tell who they are immediately; they all look straight ahead, not wasting their time on the board they know won’t work, not even reacting to the ear singeing sound informing you of the intercom announcement. I was one of those people, brushing past those who were still struggling to figure out what the hell was going on. Some people even seemed panicked that they might miss the train. That wasn’t my problem though. If you don’t pay attention you’re going to be left behind. That’s something I have come to learn being part of the business world. Some seemed to get the right idea, as they began to follow us who had been through this for quite some time. Approaching the automatic doors leading out to the platforms, I deposited my styrofoam cup in the trash can. As I released the cup that used to be filled with my usual morning brew, black coffee with no cream, no milk, and no sugar, I caught a glimpse of the rest of the bins contents. Just like always, nothing but the styrofoam cups of everyone else. I could even see the one I threw away yesterday morning labeled with my initials, JL.
As I was shuffling through the crowd of people who couldn’t seem to figure themselves out, I felt a small tug on my suit jacket. Assuming it was someone accidentally grabbing onto me as they fell I just kept on my straight forward path through the sea of commuters. Once the small tug continued I realized that this wasn’t what I thought it was. I heard a high pitched voice come from behind me.
“Ex-excuse me ma’am… can you help me,” the voice uttered is a sort of silent yell.
They spoke as if they were trying to be heard over the rustling footsteps, but not trying to draw too much attention by screaming. Turning around I saw the same girl with the backpack from before, except I could clearly tell now that she was in fact a young woman. Observing the straps covering her shoulders I could tell it was an parchment colored canvas bag with dark brown leather straps hooking the rucksack closed which appeared to be creased from wear. She was wearing a semi-baggy forest green twill jacket. She was short, but seemed to compromise this with her black platform boots which gave her an extra inch. Despite the height assisting footwear, I still had to look down at her.
She continued on in what sounded like an English accent, “Would you by any chance know where the 6:14 train is boarding?”
At first her question came as a surprise to me. Almost nobody talked to one another in a place like this. Why would they? Most people just assume that everyone doesn’t care about anyone’s problems but their own. Rightfully so, there was no point in wasting your time to help someone who wasn’t competent enough to figure it out.
After giving her a puzzled look at the thought of her approach in asking me a question I thought to myself that she clearly isn’t from around here. I took a deep breath in and exhaled, deciding reluctantly to help her out.
Shifting my eyes towards the direction I was initially heading, I pointed out the automatic doors on the north wall and said in a monotone voice, “This way.”
Not wanting to hold up the others heading the same way, I swiftly turned back around and continued moving forward towards my destination. I reckoned she was close behind me so I kept at a decent pace, not wanting to waste others and more importantly my own time. Quickly looking back to make sure she was still close behind I noticed she was having trouble keeping up. At first I thought that I would keep going as I didn’t have the time to stop and hold her hand the whole way. I already told her which way to go anyway. She would be fine, right? Having a slight sense of guilt, I glanced at my watch to see how much time I had until the train arrived. It was only 6:10 and with the train arriving at 6:14 I concluded I could spend an extra minute to make sure she got there okay. I did take some responsibility when I answered her question after all. I slightly sidestepped off of my usual footpath and looked in her direction.
Cupping one hand around the sides of my lips I raised my voice exclaiming, “Pick up the pace.”
After she finally caught up I decided to give her a small lesson about how to survive in a place like this.
“You can’t let everyone shove you around like that. You’ll never get anywhere, especially with your small stature.”
“Wouldn’t it be rude to shove people out of the way,” she asked in response.
“Just trust me, I have been doing this for a while now. People are going to be willing to push you around, both physically and otherwise, so just don’t be afraid to bite back a bit.”
Looking down at her, she formed a face that showed she wasn’t so sure of my advice.
In response I advised her to, “At the very least stand your ground a bit. Don’t let others manipulate your path so much and for god sakes don’t let everyone else go in front of you. If they aren’t going to be polite to you then you don’t have to be polite back. It’s admirable, but nobody here seems to care about what’s admirable. They only care about themselves. It is the unfortunate truth and if you don’t learn to adapt you’ll be left in the dust.”
She seemed to resonate with that a bit better. She gave an unsure but trusting smile and nodded confidently. After that we both stepped back into the crowd as a pair. She seemed to be doing okay for herself now, picking up the pace to make up for her shorter legs, and not letting everyone else push her around.
Worrying about her I didn’t pay attention to how close we were to the door. Without noticing, they slid open allowing the cool fall air to rush in. The brisk air slammed into my face in violent manner causing my hair that I had just straightened to flutter all out of place. With strands flying into my face I suddenly became frustrated at the fact that I hadn’t noticed I was that close to the platforms entrance. Usually I make preparations, grasping the part of my hair that hangs down together just in case it is windy out.
“This is why I don’t like getting distracted with other people’s issues,” I brooded to myself as I continued walking through the doors trying to get my hair back under control.
My thought process was promptly interrupted though, as I saw the girl jaunt a few steps ahead, close her eyes and part her peach colored lips, sipping the air in through the small opening.
“The air feels brilliant out here. It’s quite refreshing, wouldn’t you say?”
Hearing those words felt odd to me. I always thought the air was stale and almost bitter as it hit the tongue. At first I thought she must just be trying to make conversation but her face seemed so genuine as she turned towards me. The type of genuine that I hadn’t felt for ages, perhaps since I first started coming to this station regularly.
Before I could even respond to her question she opened her eyes and wore an expression of pure wonder and excitedly exclaimed, “Oh my stars! Your hair looks so pretty as the wind blows through it. Oh, and the sun reflects off the black of it so beautifully.”
Startled from her sudden forwardness towards me, I furrow my eyebrows at her. Clearly becoming embarrassed her pale face turned into a slight blushed pink.
“Sorry about that…I’ve sort of got a thing for the artsy stuff. I kind of freak out when something catches my eye like that. So when I saw you in the light I couldn’t help but burst out at what I saw next to all the other black suit business drones.”
I thought to myself, “What the hell that was supposed to mean? Could she not see that she basically described me with that label? I wear that black suit. I work that nine to five job in that typical New York business, doing that same work day after day.
She must have read my thoughts or noticed my insulted face because she seemed to try to pull back what she said by professing, “I mean something about you stands out to me. I can’t quite put my finger on it though…” She then briefly went quiet as she was probably thinking of a way to reel back that accidental insult before continuing, “Well at the very least that lipstick of yours really separates you from the rest on a physical level.”
My lipstick? That’s the best she could think of. It’s not even a designer brand, and it is just like any other red lipstick.
Thinking on it some more with an inquisitive face she then snapped her fingers and with amazing conviction asserted, “It is a perfect crimson red.”
Still a bit upset at her remark I put her comment aside. I tried not to let it ruin my day as in just a few minutes I would probably never see this girl again. By the time I came to that realization we had taken a left and both arrived at the platform where we would be boarding the train. A sign hung below the rotted gray concrete roof awning over the platform displaying the time, 6:12, and the name of the platform, 6B.
“Oh that must have been what the intercom was saying earlier. Atform mix V must mean platform 6B, that makes sense. You must come here a lot to be able to figure that out so easily.”
I responded by mumbling in agreement.
Walking a few more steps forward I turned to the girl and said, “The train will be arriving soon. Wait for it here.”
As I began to turn back around she looked at me and questioned, “Aren’t you waiting here as well?”
Informing her that I would be waiting approximately 20 feet away where the quiet car would be stopping she remarked, “Wow. You really know this place inside and out. Anyway, thank you so much for your assistance. I get the feeling most people wouldn’t have stopped to help me, let alone take me to the platform.”
With my back turned to her, already heading towards where I would wait I put a hand up to wave goodbye declaring, “You’re right.”
I didn’t even say you’re welcome, but instead just kept moving. Still a bit agitated by her comment, I left her with a remark that she shouldn’t expect that sort of kindness again from these cattle-like people. Finally arriving at my location I exhale a deep breath and adjust myself so I am precisely two feet from the yellow caution line. Standing as I do everyday, I adjust the bag dangling from my shoulder and stand perfectly still. Not ten seconds pass, that I find myself thinking about my interaction with that woman. She was so positive and friendly. That’s a rare breed around here. Not even the tourists have that attitude towards others. Glancing back at her I could see her take off her twill jacket and reveal a maroon colored sweater over a blue and white striped collared shirt which can be seen covering part of her neck. It went well with her dark wash denim. In the sea of black and white cloth surrounding her she was hard to miss. Laying her coat down on the floor she sat down on it, and began to pull something out of her off white canvas backpack.
Averting my eyes, I thought to myself that she could just sit on the benches not far behind her. At the end of the day it really wasn’t my problem though and thus I tried to ignore her. Once again I found my head clouded with our brief moment of communication. Thinking on it some more, I realized that some one as sweet as her probably wouldn’t be trying to insult me with what she said. Even if it was an accident I get the feeling she didn’t mean it in the way I interpreted it.
“Maybe I should apologize to her.”
That thought briefly danced through my head, but it left just as soon as it came.
“Why should I feel the need to apologize? She said something that could easily be interpreted as an insult. Plus she didn’t seem to look like she knew I was insulted, so I don’t need to do anything, right?”
Taking another gaze in her direction I noticed what appeared to be one of those large heavy duty sketch pads in her lap with a couple of pens by her side. She must have been drawing, but I didn’t really bother to care. However, she did sort of remind me of myself a bit. I used to carry around a sketchbook and try to draw everything that brought a twinkle to my eye. Of course, I wasn’t very good and I quickly dropped the hobby. That’s when I noticed the letters written on the front of the sketchbook. They read JL. Suddenly I began pouring more of my conscious into this woman, realizing just how much I used to be like her when first arriving in the city. I had so many dreams and aspirations for where my life would go in this city, thinking I could really do something to make an impact, but over time those feelings dulled and I became the person I am now. How could I lose that side of me? I really am one of the drones she mentioned. I could easily be lost in the sea of black business suits.
Eventually I realized she was staring back at me, noticing I was observing her. As our eyes connected I darted my head back toward the tracks, inhaling as if startled from being seen. Sighing out the air I relaxed my composure and reasoned with myself that there was no way someone as genuine as she could have any malicious intent with that remark. Perhaps she meant it, and perhaps she wasn’t reeling it back after she said it, or maybe she was just being friendly. Realizing it was me who made her comment out to be something it wasn’t, I felt the need to at the very least go up to her and properly thank her for the nice things she said.
I took a look at my watch again, which read 6:13. I still had time. I started walking towards her making sure not to cross any closer than two feet away from the yellow line. As I did I noticed her looking in my direction with her peripheral vision. I stood next to her and struggled to push words out of my mouth. I thought it would be slightly awkward just saying thank you while having nothing else to talk about so I searched my mind to try to think of a conversation starter.
Without looking at her I quietly mumbled, “So…”
Before I could continue she cut me off vocalizing, “I’m sorry I was staring at you.”
Surprised at her statement I inquired, “Shouldn’t I be the one apologizing? I thought you were staring because I starred first.”
“Oh, to be honest I hadn’t noticed,” she responded beginning to stand up off the ground.
“Oh no, I’ll sit. You stay.”
Taking a seat on the concrete platform I felt how cold it was, but at the same time it was nice to get off of my feet as they are trapped in heels.
“I am curious though.” The young woman questioned, “If you weren’t looking at me because I was staring, then why were you looking?”
“I came to a realization that you are a lot like who I was a few years ago. When I came to this New York I had the same sort of positive outlook and personality that you greeted me with. And then something got to me, and turned me into one of those business drones you spoke of.”
Hurriedly the woman blurted out, “No, no, no. You weren’t one of them. I actually meant what I said a few minutes ago.”
“Well I appreciate the compliment,” I responded unconvinced before a brief pause. “So you said you were into the artsy stuff, and I see you with a sketchpad here. What is it exactly you came to this city for?”
“Oh, I actually came to become a freelance artist. Back in my hometown my art never had that flare that made it more than a simple drawing. So I decided to pack everything up and take a leap of faith. I left everything I knew to find inspiration here in the big apple.”
“Oh yeah. Found anything to push that inspiration towards,” I asked.
“Well you see there is a rather large company looking to hire someone for a piece of art, and the persons art they select will be featured in Times Square.”
“That sounds great,” I told her.
In an excited voice she uttered, “I know, right? Especially because it is a dream of mine to design something that can be featured in Times Square.”
When she said that the first thing I thought about was how she should give up on that idea. From my experience here it wouldn’t be worth it. Even if she did make it, she would soon realize her dream of what her life could be in the city isn’t quite what it’s actually like. Having that thought only drove home the fact that I may just now be conditioned to assume the worst. I just didn’t want her to work her ass off only to realize she was just going to become another cog in the wheel like I am.
Of course I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that, so brushing aside that thought I looked at her pushing a smile out and said, “Good luck with that.”
Despite my monotone voice she cheerfully responded with a smile back saying, “Thanks. That means a lot.”
It was here I saw what I can only assume is a flicker of the way she sees every aspect of our existence. Of the way I used to perceive this floating sphere we call the world and the people who inhabit it. When she gave that smile suddenly her eyes exploded in a shade of deep chestnut brown I never noticed before. The sun glimmered through shimmering off her, revealing brunette hair that was a perfect blend of the color of fallen leaves in autumn mixed with the lighter tone of caramel. It somehow encapsulated a safe homelike feeling that I hadn’t felt since before coming to New York. The illumination struck her eyes and what seemed like a simple blue before turned into the ever changing shade of the sky on a spring afternoon. Every fraction of her iris’ were uniquely different from each other, making it feel as though faint translucent clouds were skating across them leaving every millimeter a different shade then the next. Despite only taking up a small percentage of her face they drew attention as if they had an atmosphere of their own. Her entire presence was suddenly beaming with a luminosity that left me awestruck.
Clearing my throat and coming back to reality I struggled to find where we left off in the conversation, but quickly came up with something. “So, what does the company want for a piece of art?”
In a poetic manner, she looked off into the distance and said, “The idea behind the piece is that of standing out. Being unique and setting yourself apart from everyone else.”
“With that you could just do yourself,” I declared jokingly. “With the amount of people tied to their briefcases and cell phones here, an artist on a train platform really sticks out like a sore thumb.”
Laughing at the idea she explained that originally she was planning to make something like a landscape of New York City with her own personal art style, “I think I found a better idea just from my experience at this station though.”
Unsure as to what she would be talking about, I suddenly hear the sound of the train moving down the tracks. Hearing the sound and watching the train begin to pull in, we both begin to stand, gathering our things. As I stand I look at my watch again seeing that the train has come precisely on schedule, just as it always does, right at 6:14.
Right as the doors to the train open I think to ask her another question. “You said it was a big company commissioning the art piece. What is the company?
The people around us begin boarding, bustling past us. But not letting them push her around she answers, “Oh, it’s a large apparel corporation that owns tons of brands. I believe it’s called PVH.”
Completely taken back at the sheer coincidence of the situation in front of me I quickly tell her, “No way, that’s the company I work for.”
“Really?! What are the odds,” she replies.
Suddenly an idea pops into my head. “This is your lucky day, because I just might know someone at the company who may be involved with this sort of thing. I’ll tell you what, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
The woman’s eyes widen as she hears that and almost yells, “You would really do that for me? Oh, thank you so much.”
Suddenly the train conductor shouts, “Last call for the 6:14 train. The next train into the city isn’t for another hour”
Not wanting her to miss the train I conclude the conversation saying, “You should go on and board. It was nice talking to you.”
Nodding her head she communicates back with a jovial voice, “Likewise.”
Walking back over to where I was standing before, where the silent car was now sitting straight in front, I suddenly realized I never got her name. Without it I would never be able to put the word in for her. Turning around to ask her, I see she is already gone. She must have already boarded. All I have are her initials which isn’t much to go on. I thought that maybe if I knew what she was making for the art piece I could figure it out, but she said she isn’t going with her original idea and I never asked what it was she ended up changing it to. Reflecting on the conversation with the young woman, I became frustrated with myself wondering how I could fail to ask all of those questions.
As I continue to look at the area where she was standing I notice a colored art marker sitting on the edge of the platform. It had to be hers. There is nobody else here that it could belong to. She must have dropped it when she was using it. Suddenly I hear the doors begin to close. If I wanted to make the train I would have to go now and forget about the art utensil. But something about the color of it draws my attention. I become less concerned with the train to work, and more intrigued by the marker. The train began moving away from the platform, but I didn’t care anymore. I moved up to the yellow caution line and crouched down to pick it up. What was strange was that upon thinking back, I could have sworn I only saw her using black and white colors when she was using her sketch book. But this wasn’t either of those. This was a vibrant colored artists marker. One that seemed almost familiar. Turning the drawing utensil around in my hand, a small smirk forced itself onto my face.
Reading out loud the label that she seemingly added onto the marker, it was titled, “Perfect crimson red.”