5/9/12

SUBWAY


The subway train pulled out of the station, which was little more than a covered area with a Charlie Card machine and a sign that said “LONGWOOD” in big, white letters, layered over the green sign. The station was empty now, except for the near-silent whispering of the fallen leaves in the autumn breeze, seemingly passing along a secret. The rustling passed from one section to the next, a wave of crinkles and rustling, shifting and whirling in the crisp Boston air.

The train was nearly empty too, with only a driver and a lone passenger taking up space. The radio turned on, orating: “Next stop: Fenway,” in a voice that seemed all too average. The driver wondered who recorded those messages, immortalized, he who had given the next station years before and he who would give the next station for years to come. For a moment, the driver envied the nameless voice, he who would live on while others passed away in anonymity, with a wake and a funeral and a tombstone in a forgettable corner of a lonely cemetery, devoid of everything except the secrets of the leaves.

The passenger slid low in his seat, hood up, unwilling to break the self-imposed solitary confinement. His gaze was focused on that which was passing by, but he could not see past the Plexiglass window. He looked up at the driver, now deep in thought, contemplating Man’s irreversible mortality. The passenger pulled out a pen.

He pressed down on the plastic directly beneath the galls barrier and pulled, creating a small crevice in the material. He repeated the action, forming sloppy, choppy lines, then sloppy, choppy letters, and then, finally, sloppy, choppy words.

He did not look around him; his gaze did not deviate from his work. The city passed by, unnoticed.

And then, he was done.

He got off the train at Copley, then boarded another train to spread his message to a single person in a city of thousands. He would do this at as many trains as he could, as often as he could, gambling with the universe, increasing his odds each time he inscribed his words:




“Christina Polo,





I hope you read this. I love you.






-Nick Bayer.”

The train left the station, rumbling down the track, bearing only a driver and a message, looping through Boston, to be seen by hundreds each day, in hope that she would be one.