The subway car is rattling along. It is lurching and throwing itself in every direction. Joe is standing inside of it, bouncing around in its long steel bowel. The lights of the stations and the passing lamps in the tunnels light and fade quickly on the express. Joe is rattled and tousled and tired and bored. Lights race by him in the windows of the train cars. They pass by more and more quickly. They are yellow and shine into the car like curious children.

There is a voice playing his head. You are compassionate person. You like other people. You can be around them easily because you, yourself are a friendly person. His CD player spins away in his lap and behind the voice is the familiar sound of a brook running through some woods. Now and then there is a bird call or the sound of insects, or something splashing in the water.

The lights flash by the car. The water—only in his ears—runs.

You are a compassionate person. You like other people. You can be around them easily because you, yourself are a friendly person.

There is a man on the train with a large hat and it has slumped down over his eyes and he is sleeping. There is a woman next to him with a bag from shopping. She is staring at an ad but clearly not seeing it. She is thinking about the last time she went ice skating and how long it has been since she last went and that she should go more often. There are many people on the train thinking and staring. One man at the opposite side of the car is talking to his daughter. He is telling her that the last time they went to the museum, she liked it. She says she didn’t and crosses her arms.

The lights are going by. They are a rhythm but not in time with the clack-clack of the wheels or the rumbling. They peer into the windows of the car and laugh.

The lights’ pulse quickens. 124th street goes by, 123rd street goes by, 122nd street goes by. Success is measured in attempts. The pulse grows and the lights seem to grow in brightness. 120th, 118th, 116th, 110th. Halogen cyclopses claw and peer in the window every second. They sweep over the passengers and caress and examine them and grow and grow in brightness until they burst into the windows, and flood the car like water. The people are quiet and stunned. They smile at one another. The car is filled with an unworldly light. You know that there is no such thing as luck. Luck is being ready for an opportunity which is a reward. The people are smiling at one another and shaking hands and walking through the door at the end of the car that is brighter than even the liquid ambient light engulfing them. They pat Joe on the shoulder as they go and they ask him if he wants to come with them—to wear they are going. If he stays, they tell him, he must fo down. He’s not sure. He can’t answer them.

The train begins to speed up and he can feel the gravity of the shift in vertical direction; the train is going down.

“Sir. Are you getting off? Sir? Are you awake?”

Joe comes to. He looks to the transit worker speaking to him with a question on his face.

“This is the end of the line, son.”

“Where?…” he looks around and sees the sign for Utica. He makes a sour face.

“You can cross over,” the transit workers says helpfully. “But we can’t let anybody stay on the train when it turns around.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Joe gathers himself, stands, nods, and goes to exit the train.

“We’re all tired,” the transit worker says.

Read the whole thread: The Hunger Engine

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