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Allen McGill |
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HERO Roy scrambled down the steps, raced along the Times Square platform and reached the downtown express just as its doors slammed shut in his face. An old woman inside the car grinned at him as the train pulled away, red lights and rear window blinking sassily back at him. He shrugged, hitched the strap of his shoulder bag higher, and ambled along the platform. He hadn't really been in a hurry, he realized, smiling to himself. The racing had been instinctive, simply a habit acquired by years of rush-hour peristalsis. It was much later than usual for him, and the subway station was nearly empty. His Friday workload had been tremendous, forcing him to work late, skip lunch and, what irritated him more than anything, miss his workout at the gym. As he'd left his office in the Pan Am building, cold gray drizzle pressured his mood, and the thought of jostling wet bodies tightly crammed into airless subway cars depressed him even further. The offer of sanctuary had flashed at him through the mist from the red neon sign of a nearby bar, and he'd fled to it. Payday revelers competed with a blaring jukebox, creating a party-like atmosphere in the open, brightly lit pub as the storm outside grew worse. Much later, after too many Scotches, Roy's mood had lightened considerably. He shuttled across town to Times Square, his leather bag, shiny black with rain and heavy with ledgers needing work over the weekend, at his side. It had been a gift from Brenda, his fiancée. At first he'd carried it self-consciously, but eventually it had become a marsupial-like extension of himself, freeing one hand for a subway grip, the other for an inevitable book. Reaching his underground "alcove," a short, almost-hidden passageway beneath two ascending, converging staircases, he leaned against a post and wiped the dried rain specks from the thick lenses of his glasses. He watched the blurred image of an Uptown express as it shrieked to a halt at the opposite platform, then withdrew a paperback from his bag. His eyes flared, attempting but unable to focus on the print. The drinks must have affected him more than he'd realized. Returning the book to his bag, he stared absently across the tracks, kneading the soft leather of the wide strap with his fingertips. "No!" he heard a woman's voice behind him cry. "Thank you!" The urgency in her voice made him turn. A young woman--a girl, really--stood pressed against a pillar, cornered by three men clutching bag-wrapped pint bottles. Her wide, darting eyes shone with fear. Her face was flushed. Long hair, parted in the center, and plastered to her head with rain, hung dank and lifeless on her chest. "Come on, Mama," a male voice ordered. "Take a drink!" A tall, Army-jacketed blond man, facing her, tipped a bottle toward the girl's grimacing mouth. "I said no!" The girl's voice was shrill, tremulous. She pushed the bottle away. "Leave me alone." On her right, a slick-haired Hispanic stood leaning against her, leering drunkenly. A sharp-faced Black with a massive rain-speckled Afro crowded her on the left. "What are you, prejudiced?" the Hispanic demanded. His mouth twisted nastily, then reverted to his leer. "I like pretty blond ladies." Lifting a hand, he stroked the ends of her hair, pressing her right breast. She clawed his hand away, glaring at the men with pleading hatred. Roy watched, mesmerized. People who had strolled into the area edged away, feigning ignorance, to peer back over newspapers from a safe distance, uninvolved. Fighting the impulse to do the same, Roy remembered the horror he'd felt on hearing reports of witnessed, unimpeded rapes and murders. His eyes searched the station for a policeman, but saw none. Confused indecision transfixed him. He looked again at the girl, saw the tears that had risen to her eyes. The Black was speaking quietly in her ear, his hand gripping her arm. She turned away from him, her face twisted with disgust. "Jane! How are you?" Roy blurted loudly, crossing quickly to the foursome, a forced, awkward smile on his face. He reached between "Soldier" and the Hispanic, grasped the girl by her forearm and drew her out forcibly. Four sets of eyes stared at him. "Pretend you know me," he whispered hoarsely, pulling her away. The girl looked down at him, eyes widening farther, as if from shock. "Take your hands off me!" she yelled. Yanking her arm free, she stalked away from him, heavily, as if to dig her heels into the concrete platform, her back tautly arched. Roy froze, his mouth gaping. He watched her disappear into the distance, her words hanging like static in the cavernous tunnel. Blood rushed to his ears and heated pressure built behind his eyes. More faces turned to stare at him. "What the hell are you?" a grating voice behind him demanded. "Some kind of hero?" He jerked around. The three men were closing in on him. The Black, holding his bottle by its neck, raised it threateningly. "I'm gonna split yo' haid, man." Roy lurched backward, his heel crossing the yellow line at the platform's edge. Soldier advanced, raising a fist, his eyes red and breath rancid from alcohol. His words bit through tightly clenched teeth: "You lousy mother..." "Cool it, man," said the Hispanic. He motioned with his head and they all turned. A transit cop stood at the far end of the Uptown platform. "You're one lucky bastard, wise-ass!" Soldier said, looking back at Roy, his fist lowering. He stepped back, motioned for the others to follow, then lumbered off in the direction the girl had gone. Roy exhaled, slowly, in spasms, easing the pressure in his chest. A dry coldness filled him, chilling his sweat-coated body. His trembling fingers were icy. Weakly, he made his way to the far end of the platform, forcing calm, his eyes straight ahead. An Express screeched to a halt beside him and he boarded the empty first car, collapsing heavily into the rear corner seat near the emergency exit. He was surrounded by a miasma of illegible graffiti, permanent testimonials of the insignificant. The car closed its doors and carried him off into the intestinal darkness of the tunnel, infusing itself with a muffled growl, like an asthmatic Jackson Pollock painting. Roy set the bag on his lap, leaned his head into the corner and closed his eyes. Details of the "encounter" coursed through his mind. They were jumbled, confused. Amazed and a bit smug, he thought of what he had done, and why. Stupidity! he decided finally, as the train pulled into the Thirty-fourth Street station. And he had called her Jane! So who did that make him, Tarzan? He grinned, calmness beginning to settle within him. He looked up as the car jolted on its way toward Fourteenth Street. His stop...home...and Brenda. A roaring blast of air jolted him as the door between the cars was wrenched open. Jeans and the bottom part of an Army jacket came into his view and stopped before him. "Hey, Julio," Soldier called. "You were right. Here's our macho-man!" He moved to one side, letting "Julio" and the Black enter the car through the open-latched door. Fear pressed firmly into the base of Roy's throat as the Black sat beside him, spreading wide, in front of Soldier. Julio grasped the handle above Roy's head, hovering over him, then propped his right boot on the seat, between Roy's legs and under the black bag. "Hey, come on!" Roy yelled. He cursed the tremors that began to take command. He could feel the blood drain from his face, his mouth become sandy. The suffocating pressure of claustrophobia engulfed him, and he tried to rise. A bolt of pain shot up into his stomach as Julio's boot kicked powerfully into his groin. He shrieked and doubled over, arms wrapping across his stomach, fingers pressing into the stitches of agony and nausea. "You cost us a piece a ass, man," Roy heard the Black say as an elbow drove sharply into his ribs. "You shoulda minded y'own business." A hand grabbed a fistful of Roy's hair, wrenched his head up, then slammed it back against the wall. "I'm sorry," he cried, his voice swallowed by the clamor surging through the open door. "Tha's no good enough," Julio said with a sneer. "You gonna have ta pay for it." A knife flashed in his hand, its long, narrow blade glinting in the light, to run slowly under the rim of Roy's glasses, stretching the skin beneath his bulging eyes. Roy's head strained back against the wall, as if trying to pass through it. His mouth stretched grotesquely to form a scream, but his throat had solidified, his body immobile. "Check his bag and wallet," Soldier said. A hand reached across Roy's chest, yanking the wallet from his jacket. The knife left his face and plunged downward, into the bag on his lap. It sliced sideways, parallel to the silver zipper. The bag sat, gaping open, like an autopsied cadaver. Handfuls of papers were wrenched out through the incision and tossed into the raucous gale between the cars. Some streaked back to flit erratically through the air to settle on the muddied floor. Julio held up a plastic bag in his free hand. "What the hell is this, underwear?" Roy coughed tightly. "Gym clothes," he managed to say hoarsely, his throat raw and dry. Julio looked down at him, his brow creased, then down at the bag. His lips curled. "You know what? I think we got us a maricon here." He pressed the knife's point under Roy's nose. "You a maricon, ain't you, man?" He twisted the blade, piercing the skin. Roy felt blood flow down his upper lip to his mouth. "I don't know what that is," he said. His head was tilted back, eyes hypnotized by the shining steel. "You know, man," the Black said. "That means queer, faggot!" Roy panicked, tried to shake his head. The knife pressed deeper. "No!" he gasped. "Sure you are, man," Julio said. He lowered the knife, tapping it on the black bag, its silver blade glinting like a scalpel across an open wound. "Only maricons carry pocketbooks and go to gyms with the boys." The three laughed without humor. Searching for some sign of sanity, Roy looked pleadingly toward Soldier but found only marble hard disdain glaring back at him. The red handle of the emergency brake swung from the ink marked ceiling beyond Soldier's head. It swayed with the movement of the train, teasing, then receded as Roy watched, like a light in a dream. As the train began to slow, Roy's desperation intensified. He had to get off, to get home, to get help! Station lights flashed between the cars--girder posts sped past in a blur--the high pitched squeal of brakes sounded as the train slowed and came to a halt. Julio pocketed the knife and Soldier moved to block Roy's view as they turned to watch the opening doors. Silence settled around Roy like a shroud as the car's vibrations dissipated. The doors to his prison were going to close again! His head twitched, spastic. He had to do something! He grasped his hands beneath Julio's raised knee and surged upwards with all his strength, lifting him and hurling him to the right to collide with Soldier. They tumbled to the floor, sprawling, blocking the door. The Black snapped his head around to glare at him, eyes wide with fury. Throwing his bag into the Black's face, Roy leaped into the area between the cars, straddling the abyss. The cars lurched, nearly jolting him off his feet. He scrambled outward, forced apart the spring-gated shock absorbers with his hands and swung his body into the air between them, leaping to the platform as the train began to move. He'd leaped too far! He hit the concrete with his heels, toppling him backwards toward the gap between the platform and the train. He buckled his knees, forcing his weight downward, managing to collapse to the platform as the train thundered off behind him. His breath came in deep gasps, eyes blurring with ambiguous tears, his body shaking as if palsied. "Probably drunk," he heard a passing man say. Laughter tried to force its way to the surface but succeeded only in producing a series of short, shrill sobs. He crouched in the lighted station, blood dripping from his nose to form a shiny, dark pool on the concrete between his hands. He grasped a girder, pulled himself upright and, holding a handkerchief to his face, made his way up to the rain-slick street across from St. Vincent's Hospital. A fine mist enveloped him, cooling, as he rounded the comer to the hospital's Emergency entrance. He had no insurance card to show the hospital, of course. That had been taken from him, along with all the details of his life--including his name and address. |