Mark Fellin
The J Line
Becca steps to the edge of the platform for the fifth time in the past four minutes and bends in half to look into the tunnel. The late-night J train to Brooklyn is the goddamn worst. Followed closely by every other line on the colorful subway map sprawl. All aboard a crumbling relic built in 1904. Congestion ahead, track issues, sick passengers, we appreciate your patience. Don’t worry, the latest fare hike will fix it all. Becca steps back and scans the empty platform before leaning against a rusting girder. She adjusts the backpack hanging over her shoulder and pulls her coat tight against the icy December air.
It’s three in the morning and Becca’s on her way home after eight hours of proofreading. Reviewing forms and fine print is mind-numbing work, but identifying other people’s errors feels a lot better than dwelling on her own. It’s therapy in paragraph form. She scored the overnight gig a few months ago after acing the copy editing exam; maybe those AP English classes actually paid off. But today, just before punching out, the shift manager tells her the position is being eliminated. AI is cheaper and faster with less sass and fewer coffee spills. Thank you, good luck, fuck you.
She pushes her giant headphones over the top of her tight black wool hat, maxes the volume and is assaulted by the new Deathalon album, Somnolent Scream, the band’s loudest yet. Her frozen breath billows around her head.
When the J eventually limps into the Essex Street station she doesn’t hear it. Deathalon rages through her brain at one hundred twenty decibels. The doors slide open. Becca enters and falls into a seat. It’s three fifteen. She assesses her four fellow travelers as the doors close.
The girl directly across the way is crashing hard. She looks a little younger than Becca, maybe twenty-two. It’s hard to say with pretty little party girls. Across and to the left, a small stiff man studies the bible, his mahogany hand glides down each sacred page, CVS readers grip the tip of his nose, a gold bookmark ribbon extends down between his knees. He’s wrapped in a long black coat, a burgundy scarf twirls around his neck, a green Yankees cap is pulled down tight. To Becca’s right, one bench over, a teenager is sprawled out on his back. His head is shrouded in a grimy gray hoody. His left arm is extended, palm up, panhandling even in his dreams. The kid will freeze when he gets outside, if he goes outside. They say lots of the homeless winter in the subway; it certainly smells like it.
And at the far end, in the corner, a long narrow figure sits up straight, legs crossed at the ankles, hands jammed deep in the pockets of a silver Canada Goose down jacket. He reads the ads that ring the car, lips moving slightly. He smiles at Becca. She looks through him subway-style and shuts her eyes.
The next stop is on the other side of the East River. The Manhattan-to-Brooklyn crossing is a six-minute, slow-motion rumble over the Williamsburg Bridge. Becca taps her phone and “Möbius Man” slices through her soul. Nodding in time with the gouging base, Becca’s upcoming weekend flashes by like a bad poker hand: shopping for the ancient aunt she lives with, six hours of court-ordered community service, getting high with Paul, dodging sex with Paul. She knows he’s boning her friend, but Paul has the best weed in Ocean Hill. The best bone too. She’ll break up with him soon. Or move in with him.
The J pitches forward with a spasm, reconsiders with a jolt and starts its eastward crawl. Becca watches the young girl stretch like a kitten before slinking along and disappearing into the next car. The train emerges from the depths and begins its slow ascent over the bridge. The tall guy is looking at Becca again, or still, so she looks out the window. Through the dirty glass, the city spreads out northward, a dash of glitter tossed on a black cat. Becca pats the Marlboros in her coat pocket. She quit five days ago. She’ll quit again.
Becca replays yesterday’s conversation with her father. It’s the standard artificially flavored peppermint Christmas call from Indiana, with the merry-merry morphing seamlessly into The Checklist: work, boyfriend, come home and give college one more try. Becca’s clipped answers chill the holiday cheer, so they mumble through their I-love-yous and hang up. Her father means well but in the decade since her mother died he hasn’t upped his parenting game.
Another drum avalanche slams through Becca’s skull and her eyes crack open. The tall guy is standing now, looking down the length of the car. He’s trim but sturdy. His face is straight lines and clean edges, more efficient than handsome, like an IKEA bookcase. His eruption of thick, black hair sways with each dip in the tracks, a smirk slides across his lips. Becca’s eyes close again.
Without a job she’ll be out of her windowless one-room basement apartment soon. Her aunt is not unkind, but she’s a bottom-line lady on a fixed income. A guitar solo plows down Becca’s spine and makes her knees ache. Her eyes twitch open long enough to see the tall guy standing in front of the man reading the bible, who’s looking up and shaking his head. The J train’s jangle pushes her heavy lids down.
Is it bad breaks or bad decisions that have her slouching home to a secondhand futon in the pre-dawn frost? A bad attitude, she’s been told more than once, coupled with a toxic ego and sprinkled with stubbornness. She came to New York two years ago. It has wrestled her to the ground and tapping out may be her only option. She’s heard that Portland is a great place for exiles and castaways, with plenty of rain to keep expectations sufficiently low.
Becca absently fingers her lip rings. When she opens her eyes again the bible reader is lying on the floor, face down, mouth slack with death. His hands are tucked under his body, against his belly, failing to hold in his life, which zig-zags down the black rubber floor of the subway car, thick and red. The bible is nowhere in sight.
The tall guy sits directly across from her now. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, a long silver blade hangs down from his clasped hands. He’s looking to his left at a second motionless pile on the floor, the kid in the now very bloody hoody. The tall guy looks at Becca and yawns, wide and long.
“That’s rude,” Becca says. She can barely hear herself so she slips off her headphones, drops them in her lap. The savage beat thumps across her thighs. “You should cover your mouth,” she adds flatly, the words thick, heavy.
He responds with a toothy weatherman’s smile, his head bobs along with the train.
Becca glances to the left at the dead man, at the dead boy to the right. “Did you do this?”
“Do what?” He waits a beat. “Oh, yeah. They don’t matter.”
“According to you?” Becca is not surprised that she’s not afraid. Being gutted on the subway by a psychopath will not be the worst part of her week.
“They didn’t know my name when I asked them so they don’t matter. According to me.”
“I don’t know your name, either.” Becca’s eyes are stapled to his. She knows somehow that this is essential, vital.
“That’s too bad,” he says, still grinning.
“You know what’s too bad?” Becca shakes her head. “These people were killed by a joke. A sad, tragic joke.” She wants to look down at the victims again, for emphasis, for confirmation, but she will not break her focus on him. It’s all she has, all she can control.
“I’ve lived here my whole life and these people don’t care.” He taps the bloody knife against his chest a few times, spreading a bright, crimson constellation across the metallic sheen of his coat. “Nobody shows me any respect.”
“Why would they?”
“I take this train every goddamn day and nobody cares, nobody knows,” he says, pointing the weapon toward Becca. “I have to show them.”
“This is your big reveal?” Becca leans forward for emphasis, her face now only a few feet from his. “If you’re going to kill everyone who doesn’t care, you’ll be on this train a long time.”
“I know that.” His smile thins.
“This is a big city little boy.”
“I said I know.” He stands, unfolding in sections, one fist wrapped around the overhead handrail, the other clutching the knife, tapping it against his thigh. His stare circles Becca’s body. He is a nightmare, an absurd baneful giant in a narrow metal tube tumbling through the night.
Becca realizes she has stopped breathing and gasps. “You need to sit down so I can tell you what I know.”
The J groans as it reaches the apex above the river. The lights flicker then go out. In the darkness Becca imagines crushing his windpipe with her fist, smashing his Roman nose flat, ripping his tongue out. The lights flutter back to life. He’s still standing there, looking at her, expressionless.
“You don’t know anything.” He peers at the bodies again and drops back onto his seat.
“What I know is that you can’t figure things out so you’re angry,” she says.
“Shut up,” he shouts. “I will carve that dirty mouth off your ugly face.”
“What I know is that you’re not a coward. You just have it all twisted around.”
His gaze passes through her now, through the window behind her, through the frigid night and across the river. He shifts back against the pale blue plastic bench. The knife dangles loosely between his fingers
“If you want respect give them something to remember, something only you can do. This here,” Becca nods toward the lifeless passengers, “anyone can do this. It’s gutless, it’s ordinary.”
He toys with the knife, tests the point against his thumb.
“You think I should do it?” he asks, lifting it to his throat. His smile is back.
“I don’t know that you have a choice. If you want to control your own story.”
“You might be the only person who gets me,” he says, tilting his head back against the window, holding the blade just below his jaw.
“I don’t give a fuck about you.” She doesn’t recognize her voice. “But you should.”
Becca sees her reflection in the window behind him. It’s the best she’s looked in a long time.
The steely scent of blood hovers between them, sharp and urgent. The J train slows.
The recorded MTA announcement barks. “This stop is Marcy Avenue, Brooklyn. Thank you for riding with us.” The J grinds to a stop. It’s three twenty-one.
Becca stands, slides her headphones on, winces as the singer shrieks through a chorus. She turns to face the exit and waits.
The doors stutter and split apart. Becca steps into the cold, blue-black opening and onto the empty concrete platform. She looks back into the train, at the knife lying on the floor, until the doors slide shut.
Mark Fellin lives in New York City, always has. His stories have appeared in Berkeley Fiction Review, Criminal Class Review, Daikaijuzine, Literally Stories, Rock and A Hard Place Magazine, and The Realm Beyond.
