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Sunday July 30, 1996
I step on the subway car and survey my options. There are three empty seats. I adjust my hat and take a seat near the middle of the car.
The guy looks harmless enough; neatly New York-ish with a grey woolen coat and a brown hat. He carries a beat up cane. Granted, his shoes look a little ratty and his big toe threatens to burst through one but I've seen worse. At least he's wearing shoes.
I sigh as I sit down. Man, I hate taking the subway. Even though it's supposed to be for public access it seems as though only the gang members and weirdos use it. And there's never any shortage of either in New York City.
I almost said no to Jackie when she asked me to come over to the house where she was baby-sitting. That's how much I hate taking the subway. But she insisted, "They have a hot tub, Bailey. A hot tub."
Very tempting. And she could use the company. She hates kids. She's only baby-sitting to make some money to pay for her car insurance. Personally, I can't wait for her to save enough. After she's insured it will be no more scuzzy subway for me.
I start flipping through my wallet, stopping to study the many pictures of Jackie and I together. I've looked at these pictures a thousand times at least but I never tire of them. It just blows my mind that I'm actually with her. She's something else, my Jackie.
"They look like such strong hands, don't they?" the guy next to me asks.
I look at him, incredulous, "What?" I say.
He holds his hands out for my inspection, "I said, they look like such strong hands don't they?"
I sigh, silently. Why do I always get the weirdos? What are the chances that I would pick the one guy to sit beside that was not all there? As much as I love Jackie, she's just not worth this.
"Well?" he persists, his voice growing louder, "Don't they?"
I look down at his hands. Truly a mistake. His hands are gnarled tree branches, knotted and scarred. The fingers are long and incredibly misshapen, the knuckles are swollen and so dry that they've actually cracked and bled. I wince inwardly at the sight of them. Is this what I have to look forward to in my old age?
"They sure do." I reply, finally, "Real strong."
Satisfied, the guy nods at me and lapses into silence. Thankfully. I busy myself by flipping through my wallet again, hoping he'll take the hint. He doesn't.
"See, that's what I always thought too." he continues. The lady across from me smiles sympathetically.
The man dangles his hands underneath my nose, "Did you know these hands could once play Chopin's Etude in E Minor? Did you know that?"
I shake my head. When's my stop?
"They sure did," he beams proudly, "These hands could fly over those piano keys like you wouldn't believe."
"You don't say?" I mumble, looking the other way. Maybe I could just get off and walk the rest of the way.
"Oh yes," he replies, "Do you know what an etude is?" he asks me. He doesn't wait for a response, "It's a musical composition for practice to develop technical skill."
"That's pretty impressive," I snicker, but my sarcasm is lost on him.
"It sure is," he says, wistfully, "And Chopin's Etude isn't easy by any means. It's a real difficult piece, y'know. You play piano?"
Please let this end soon, "No." I reply.
He shakes his head, "Too bad, you've got just the hands for it. Strong, thin. With short square nails. They're ideal for playing."
I look down at my hands. I am wearing gloves. Oh God, get me off this train.
"But I bet you play basketball," he continues, resignedly, "All the young brothers play basketball nowadays. I never played basketball. Didn't want to risk hurting my fingers."
And I care? I want to scream at this guy. Why won't he just shut up? What does this have to do with anything?
"I guess you wouldn't know it to look at them now but my hands were once incredible," he goes on, "They could play Chopin's Etude in E Minor without a hitch. Once I even wrote my own composition. It was called 'In the Meantime'. Ain't that a weird title for a song?"
I nod, non-commitingly.
"Did you know I was shot?" he babbles, "Right in the knee. That's why I carry this cane."
I just raise my eyebrows at him.
"It took them fourteen hours to find the bullet and take it out. Could have left it in just the same. I was loading my gun when it happened. Accidentally hit the safety," he states, matter-of-factly.
I can't help myself, "You shot yourself in the leg?" I ask him disbelievingly. Is he serious? Do people really do that in real life?
He nods, unashamed, "Got rid of the gun after that. Didn't really need it anyway," he turns to get a better look at me, "You ever been shot?"
I shake my head, "I broke my arm once." I offer. I immediately want to take it back. How could I compare a broken arm with being shot? And why was I telling him anyway?
"I've got a daughter," he tells me, "You got any kids?"
I shake my head again. It doesn't seem too likely that I'd be having them either, what with Jackie's 'I hate kids' mentality. I mean, obviously I don't want them now but I think I would later on.
I check to see what station we're at. Good. Four more stops to go. This guy is starting to really freak me out.
"Her name's Deana," he continues, "She used to love to listen to me play Chopin's Etude in E Minor for her. She'd lay in her crib and laugh and try to talk. I think maybe she was trying to sing. Her mom died giving birth to her."
I cringe inwardly. How do you reply to that? Now I feel sorry for this poor man whose only joy in life is probably his daughter and the piano he once played. I search for something to say.
"Does Deana play the piano?" I finally come up with. I can't think of anything else.
"Once there was a fire in my apartment building," he tells me, ignoring my question, "Electrical or something. Anyway, all the alarms were going off and everyone was trying to get out any way they could. Couldn't go down the stairs. Hell, couldn't even get out of my apartment 'cause the fire had spread into the hallway. The fire department came. They had those big ladders and they were rescuing people through the windows. It was real heroic."
Unconsciously, I check to see what station we are at. Obviously this guy is some sort of nut, dead wife or not. Maybe her death had been the one to put him over the edge.
"So when they finally came to my window I ran to get Deana. She was asleep but I woke her up. Boy, she cried and cried. Anyway, the fireman was on his way up that ladder but damned if I was gonna wait for him. I climbed out that window myself. I was young, strong; I figured I could handle it. But I couldn't. Lost my footing on that ladder and I dropped her. Can still see it in my mind, clear as day. I lost my footing and I let her fall. She screamed the entire way down. Eleven stories. Landed on the concrete. They said she died instantly, like that's supposed to make it better."
He lapses into silence, lost in his thoughts. I feel my stomach flip-flop. Eleven stories.
"She was all I had in this whole crummy world," he says, but surprisingly he doesn't sound bitter, "And I let her fall. I just couldn't hold on, y'know?"
I nod slowly, at a total loss for words.
"Never played the piano after that. Never did much of anything after that," he says, "Couldn't be bothered I guess. I just don't understand it. These hands once played Chopin's Etude in E Minor. You play piano?" he asks again.
I shake my head. We arrive at my stop finally. He turns to me and holds out his hands again, palms up, "They look like such strong hands, don't they?"
I rise slowly and don't reply. What do you say to that anyway?
I leave him there like that; staring down at his hands with his cane resting across his knees. The subway doors slide shut behind me and I turn quickly to search for him but I can't see him. He's already lost in the mass of people, just another face in the crowd.
I pull off my gloves and look down at my hands. They are kind of thin and strong. The nails are short and square. My fingers look surprisingly agile.
I pull back on my gloves and watch the subway car race away and disappear into the darkened tunnel before I turn and head up the stairs to street level.
Copyright 2000 Halima Thompson
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