I push through the turn style after swiping my card, and take another long stairway down further into the cold, dark, damp, bleak, bowels of hell.
The acrid, pungent smell of urine soaked concrete, slaps me into awareness.
I hear sounds of soulful old jazz- a smooth alto sax, and the clink of passers by, tossing change into the musicians case.
A man across the tracks exposes himself.
Someone lights a cigarette. A uniformed man appears instantly to say “put it out” then disappears as fast.
No one stops the exhibitionist across the tracks, who is still at it.
A loud scream of the approaching train sets off a gust of wind, and rats scurry under the tracks.
The seemingly endless train screeches and halts as the doors open wide and a mass of humanity is regurgitated onto the platform.
And then we push and push until we are in… and moving. I look up at the map posted near the ceiling, and realize I am on the wrong train… again.
THE DAILY POST
Oct 6, 2014
Train stations, airport terminals, subway stops: soulless spaces full of distracted, stressed zombies, or magical sets for fleeting, interlocking human stories?