I loathe when I’m at a party and it’s two in the morning and suddenly everyone I talk to looks at me like they want to kiss me. It’s a look that says “I’m sloshed and can’t hide it.” I hate that look. That look freaks me out. Makes it hard for me to keep talking without stammering as I stare at the open wound of the face in front of me. I’ve had all kinds of awful surprises: my girlfriends’ boyfriends, my girlfriends themselves, professors, doctors, hairdressers, police officers, clowns, taxi drivers, neighbors, children, old people, my parents’ best friends, even several uncles and aunts and a few cousins. Nearly everyone I’ve ever met has looked at me this way. It’s not even like alcohol is always involved. It comes out of nowhere, a knife hurling toward me at top speed, or the gush of a nosebleed staining the pages of a magazine. That same freeze-frame of a face, seized by a fevered lasciviousness, the palpable manifestation of their lust for me. Even if it lasts for half of a second, I can always recognize the look. It paralyzes me. Disgusts me. Disappoints me.
I’ve been like this lately. Bitterly dwelling on this kind of thing, hung up on the bad stuff. My gaze flits from the dangling track cables to the shoes stepping over the yellow line to what little I can see of the escalator. Physically, I’m fine. But my neck aches, and sometimes I get jolts of strange and disturbing new sensations that are hard to bear without closing my eyes and tensing up every muscle. Waves of horrific, distressing thoughts crash over me. They paralyze me. Some lash against my back, others flap past me like flocks of sad pigeons. Clumsy, slow, heavy, they make everything ugly. It’s inconvenient to have these kinds of thoughts while I’m here at work. I'm afraid I’ll get a panic attack. Not long ago, a colleague of mine quit for health reasons—she couldn’t keep working here. She said just going down to the train platform made her want to cry. She said it made every pore on her body break out in a cold sweat, and that she couldn’t see people as people anymore. That now she saw them as animals. That now she felt like an animal. She told me all this over lunch, back when I was still okay. Back then, I thought she was just being dramatic, fragile. Now, I understand her all too well: I can't see the good in anything, I can't stop thinking terrible thoughts. I can't stop going over everything that’s happened to me these past few weeks.
In fact, just twenty minutes ago I was once again overcome by phantom feces. I've been afraid to go to the bathroom since I witnessed the accident. I tremble when I feel the urge coming on. I doubt there’s anything worse than going into the bathroom, feeling that, after the usual effort, you’ve successfully expelled some four pounds of shit, only to look in the bowl and discover, stunned, that there’s nothing. Nothing. Not one tidbit of crap. The water is still and pristine, the porcelain shining, spotless. It’s enough to make me reel with shock, smash my back up against the stall door and cover my mouth to stifle a scream: where is my shit? I look in the mirror, see my pale, jaundiced face, and wonder what, then, is roiling in my bowels, trying to emerge with such force from my innards? This has happened not once, but eight times since I witnessed the blond guy’s accident on the escalator. When, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him get chewed up by that greasy metal mouth, full of gears and bolts.
I’d never felt plagued by misfortune before, but since that particular accident, all kinds of stuff has happened to me. The thing that bothers me most is feeling like I’ve shit a ton, only to realize I haven’t shit at all. I'm worried that it's more than a phase and that I need to see a doctor. I feel a persistent burning in my anus every time I think about whether or not I shat. I pace along the platform with long strides, going heel-sole-toes straight along the yellow line, until the anguish subsides. I don't understand what's wrong with me. The worst part is that I don't feel up to telling a doctor, or anyone else for that matter.
I hope the blond guy is recovering well. It’s torture to have no way of knowing. That’s what I hate most about the news: they never circle back to tell you how things turn out. I can't stand not knowing how this or that story ended: the handsome cyclist who got run over, the case of animal abuse I’d have avenged with my own two hands, that miraculous fifteen-story fall to the canvas awning over a parking lot. “She was hospitalized with severe injuries.” “He was summoned to testify before the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals.” “They were taken to the hospital and remain in critical condition.” That's it. That's how they end. What am I supposed to do with so many unfinished stories?
Of course, I’m particularly interested in how this news story turns out because I lived it. It was a normal day. At rush hour, I patrolled up and down the platform, checking to make sure no one was crossing the yellow line or trying to kill themselves. I’m getting good. These days I can walk safely along the edge of the track without even thinking about it. At this point, I might as well have magnets in my boots—I glide around like Marty McFly on his futuristic skateboard. It wasn’t like that before. My first few days on the job sent me into a panic. I was convinced that at any moment a pair of arms would sprout from the crowd and push me into the void. I was terrified. It was rough. I had to watch out for gravity, other people, dizzy spells, getting electrocuted, falling and getting hit by a train. My heart skipped a beat any time I noticed a pair of eyes on me. Because that’s rare. The rush hour zombies, as I call them, never make eye-contact. If they do, something’s off. Messiahs or psychopaths, I think to myself. People like that make me imagine the worst scenarios. But the truth is, nothing all that bad has ever happened to me. Usually, these people turn out to be weak, harmless degenerates. They’re all the same—equally gloomy, predictable, and pathetic. Those of us who work in the subway know them well. They grin through the chaos, searching for eyes they can meet with their mouths half-open, clear gelatinous saliva hanging like stalactites. They rub up against the bodies around them. I’ve had to burst my fair share of testicles. I have my modus operandi. I stay by the train while the crowd avalanches through the doors. When the tide brings a degenerate too close, I step in under the pretense of keeping the boarding orderly. I plant myself beside him and reach down. My bony hand tenses with the strength of a giant. His eyes plead, his face twists and goes freakishly pale. It makes me laugh. They’re funny like that: terrified, contorted, unable to scream, afraid to call for help. Defeated, lonely failures. I smile at them and squeeze their balls until some cartilage or fluid membrane pops. Just a quick, clean squeeze. With all my nails.
On the day of the blond guy’s escalator accident, I was stationed right here in Los Héroes. I’ll admit, I was distracted. I was busy opening up my face to receive the rush of clairvoyance that comes when a train enters the station. All platform attendants know that if you’re in just the right place at the just right time, there’s a split second, just before the train’s nose appears, when you can see the future. It only works if you stay focused and position yourself perfectly, with your forehead held high. Maybe if I’d been more attentive I would’ve seen the accident coming. But I was consumed by thoughts of Javier. I’d just seen him rush by to transfer to the 2 line. He had his headphones on, his hair was a mess, and he was wearing that one old coat of his.
He didn't see me. He passed right by without recognizing me. It must’ve been the uniform. Still, I'm sure he’s into me. We talked at Marcela’s birthday party and I don’t think he’s as gay as he says he is. He got nervous when we said hello. I could tell because he startled and stood up straighter when he realized I was looking at him. I’d never seen him like that before. He drank wine and smoked a joint while I told him all the boring details of my life. Eventually, I realized he was looking at me with bedroom eyes, and his mouth trembled as he tried to suppress a smile. I don’t believe it, I thought. Javier is in love with me, too. I couldn’t concentrate—I was trying to figure out how I could be sure. Before I could ask him anything, he told me that when he was seventeen his internet went out, so he cried on the phone to tech support and threatened to stab them to death. I laughed and told him that when I was seven and learning to roller skate, a neighbor poked his head out their window and started insulting me. I got mad and, with the help of several rocks, broke all his windows. We laughed until it felt like we were drowning and that’s when I saw it: the I love you face, the face that wants to kiss me. He trembled with guilt and took a long sip of wine.
“What’s wrong, are you nervous?” I asked.
“All good,” he replied. “Just shivering.”
“Just shivering,” I confirmed.
“I don’t know why I’m like this all of a sudden.”
“I know why.”
“Oh really, why?” he asked timidly.
“Because you like me.”
Silence. Time stopped. His face turned red, his upper lip flapped like a tarp whipped around by the wind. His eyes went empty, then electrified. Time resumed and I instantly regretted everything I’d just said. He dropped his glass and started trembling even more. The people around us stopped drinking when they heard the dull thud and turned to see the wine slowly soaking into the carpet fibers. Javier bent down to pick up the glass, but as he crouched, he collapsed and burst into tears. Convulsive, suffocating sobs.
That day, the day of the accident, while thinking about that night with Javier, I heard screams and dove into the sea of people. The screams were coming from the escalator. Fingers and arms pointed the way. I pushed through the bodies as I climbed the steps, which were at that point screeching a monstrous metallic roar. Someone was holding the blond guy up by an arm. I shoved them aside and tried to pull the guy free from the dark and hungry mouth. I grabbed him around the waist and pulled with everything I had. He didn't budge. I was about to start shouting when the blond guy looked me in the eyes. I smiled. “Try to get free, try to come toward me,” I said. He smiled back and, miraculously, grew lighter. The escalator suddenly spat him out, and we tumbled backwards. We lay there on the ground while people recorded us with their cell phones, staring wide-eyed into their screens. The blond got up. He could barely stand on those feet, but he said his legs seemed to be intact. In fact, the shredding aligned his chakras. He felt brand new, and full of life.
Strange things keep happening. Just ten seconds ago, I saw a rat scurry across the tracks. When the train came, instead of running to hide in some nook of the tunnel, the rat curled up like a cat and rested his head on the rail. I screamed, “Express train!” to scare him away. But he didn't move and the wheel flattened him. How peculiar. I didn't realize rats commit suicide, too. Hot tears bloomed in my eyes as I watched him burst. I will never forget this day.
