Bumps

BUMPS

A Novella

Jon Rutherford

Copyright 2012 Jon Rutherford

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This is a work of pure fiction.

(Revised & corrected in May and September 2012.)

BUMPS

A Novella

Part One: How It Began

Did you have a nice Christmas? he said.

The sandy-haired youth was holding onto the strap in front of mine. The route between the San Diego de Campostela Avenue and Remington-Staidly stations is notoriously bumpy and has been for years. I guess they can’t figure out how to fix the tracks. Experienced passengers know to brace themselves at the right moment, just before all the jostling begins, and then hang on for all they’re worth.

The young man must have been new to the subway, for the first jolt after Campostela slammed him forcefully against me. I got whiffs of his citrus-y aftershave and of the clean scent of his skin, along with a hint of stale, honest sweat, probably from working in some low-paying office job. Highly paid workers don’t have to sweat.

His body careened harmlessly off of mine, and I saw him firm up his grip on the overhead strap and shift one foot to get better purchase against the next jolt he instinctively knew was bound to occur, the only question being when.

Sorry! he said, partially turning to meet my eyes. That was quite a bump.

You haven’t seen anything yet. Hang on.

As an act of self-preservation, I’d committed to memory, over the course of three or four of my first trips, the pattern of events. Right after you dimly glimpse all those shattered tiles in the tunnel walls about two-thirds of the way between the rotting platforms of the long-abandoned Farley St. and Hildebrand Heights stations, comes a bump far rougher than the first one. It hadn’t gone away since my last trip, and it took place right on schedule.

The young man was propelled backwards as though by some invisible hand. This time he actually lost hold of his strap and started to tumble sideways. I’d foreseen this, and was ready. As soon as his body contacted mine and I felt its downward slide, I grasped hold of him, right hand under his right arm, left beneath the left, and in a jiffy had him righted again. I could feel his heart thumping away.

Wow! he exclaimed. Is it like this all over town, or did I just pick the worst stretch? He laughed nervously.

Well, I said, reluctantly letting go of him now that he was upright once more and gripping his strap with white knuckles, this is probably the worst, but I haven’t explored every mile of the system, so don’t quote me.

I knew there was a third, killer bump coming up in about forty-five seconds at the rate we were traveling today, but decided not to warn my fellow rider. To my shame or not, I’d relished that brief physical contact when I broke his fall, and was looking forward to doing it again.

Man. Thanks for what you did back there.

Sure, I said. Oh, and, yeah, Christmas was okay, I guess. How about you?

Well... he said. I hadn’t realized so much wistfulness could be packed into one syllable. I don’t really know anybody here yet and I couldn’t afford to go back home, so...

He trailed off, but there was no need for him to continue. I could tell he’d spent Christmas alone, and lonely. Those of us of a certain age eventually become inured to it, but I knew how tough it can be for a boy or girl just out of school, with little money, and only a mediocre or worse, often far worse, apartment or room to go back to every evening, and to be cooped up in all day on Christmas.

To the average middle-class child it seems Christmas Day will always be the most special of the year, with extended family milling about, aunts and uncles picking you up and giving you a hug, and the big twinkling funny-smelling tree with artificial snow underneath laden with heaps of exciting presents.

I had time in the twenty or so seconds still remaining before the Ferguson Bump to form a mental picture of my winsome young fellow rider sitting alone in a shabby furnished room, this first Christmas on his own, opening his last can of pork-and-beans for dinner, then crying himself to sleep.

I shifted out of daydream mode, knowing the big moment was at hand. Okay, here it comes: the infamous Ferguson Bump, terror or delight of us seasoned riders, depending on your perspective and, to a lesser degree, on whether you’re seated or standing.

Wham! A deafening cacophony as every last object not screwed, nailed, or glued down, from the undercarriage to the roof of the car, got momentarily dislodged, and with a stroboscopic dimming of the lights followed by total blackout, the car and everybody in it was tossed mercilessly into the air.

The lights flickered back on to reveal two passengers about fifteen feet forward actually thrown to the aisle floor, while seated riders the length of the car were making awkward attempts to retrieve possessions that had been wrenched from their grasp or sent flying off their laps.

But my young friend was still safely if shakily on his feet, thanks to my arms, wrapped firmly around his mid-section, and my left leg, laterally bracing his.

Ohmigod, he said, what was that? There was real fear in his voice. The smell of sweat now won out over after-shave. I could feel the boy trembling, apart from the rhythmic vibration induced in all of us by the routine motion of wheels passing over track joints. I loosed my hold on him and tactfully permitted him a few moments to try to compose himself.

This is your first ride, isn’t it.

Yes, it is. His voice was still quavery. I moved here three months ago. I’ve been using my car for everything, but it quit on me just as I was getting to work this morning, so now I’m using the subway till I can get it fixed. But that will have to be after next payday.

Well, like I said, I can’t be sure, but I think this may be the worst stretch in the whole system. I’m sorry it happened also to be on the path you had to take.

That’s the way it goes, he said. Thanks for catching me again, uh...

It’s funny how there’s a special little pause that only happens when you don’t know somebody’s name and want to learn it.

Russell, I said. But just call me Russ.

Without releasing the strap, and wise he was not to, he half-turned again and extended his other hand. I took it in my own and we exchanged an awkward, unconventional but warm left-handed shake. His skin was soft and pliant. An office worker, undoubtedly.

His eyes were cornflower blue with long lashes, his complexion faintly ruddy. A definite country-boy air, or at least small-town. He smiled as by unspoken accord we kept on shaking hands for a second or two longer than usual. I felt a surge of bittersweet yearning I seldom experienced anymore.

Benjamin, he said. My friends call me Ben.

Ben, I hope your car won’t cost a lot to repair. I guess you had to have it towed.

Yeah, and I barely had enough left after that for the subway. Everything costs so much here.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Ben was not swimming in money. In fact I would have bet he kept at least one foot over the poverty line. His jacket was worn through at the collar and obviously not nearly warm enough for the season; there was a gap at the bottom where the zipper had just given up. His shoes were decent but outworn. His jeans were almost rubbed through at the knees and ragged at the cuffs. And an indoor, probably office, job you could go to in threadbare jeans didn’t suggest rising to boardroom status anytime soon.

I hope not, too, said Ben, still half-facing me and making good eye contact once in a while – he wasn’t shy, at least.

For a moment I wondered what he meant, then I remembered my remark about car repair. I knew it’d be tougher living in the city but I found out it costs way more than I ever thought.

There was a friendly openness in his speech and manner as refreshing as spring water after eight hours or more of first dreading and then actually having to listen to my focus-group participants, most of whom had lived in this city all or the greater part of their lives, and long ago become cynical, or even bitter and paranoid, about everything from their serial divorces to perceived problems with city garbage pickup, illegal immigrants, and gay marriage.

How far do you have to go, Ben?

Well, the map shows that if I get off at Covington Station I can walk the rest of the way home in fifteen or twenty minutes. Covington Station is maybe one-quarter of the way between downtown and my own stop in Terrapin Heights, a fairly remote, affluent suburb.

Suddenly I decided to do something I did not approve of and had almost never done in my life. I would tell a lie.

Really? I said. I’m getting off at Covington myself.

~~~

Technically, it wasn’t a lie, for both Ben and I did get off when our car shuddered to a halt at the Covington Station platform.

Five or six homeless people were sitting or lying against the grimy tile wall of the platform, with dirty blankets, bottles of vodka or gin in paper sacks, and cardboard boxes full of belongings. One, an old woman with terminally alcoholic features and a smile that her eyes didn’t participate in, wordlessly held out her hand just as we reached the exit portal.

Ben stopped, dug into his left jeans pocket, pulled out a dollar bill, and handed it to the woman, who muttered something I couldn’t make out.

In that moment, I saw nothing less than pure compassion written on Ben’s face. I don’t think I’d ever seen anything quite like it. It sent a shiver up my spine.

I almost didn’t say anything. But once we were out of earshot and, with the escalator roped off and marked Out of Service, climbing the three short flights of stairs to the street, I changed my mind. That was nice of you, but can you afford to do things like that? I guessed he had probably never seen a real live beggar before coming to the city.

I just felt like I should, he said. I guess you’re right. It was kind of stupid.

No, Ben, I didn’t mean it that way.

I thought of conventionally appropriate things to add, such as But she’ll just spend it on more booze, or But for all you know she’s actually doing okay and is part of an organized racket, and But the police say you shouldn’t do it. Yet what I felt like saying, but didn’t dare, was, It was a lovely thing you did.

I just kept quiet.

In the strictest interpretation, I’d failed to lie on board the train despite my intention. I had actually exited at Covington. I rationalized therefore that I still had a lie left to use as I pleased. At least one.

Listen, Ben, I said as we came out into the last minutes of faltering daylight at the top of the stairs. I have an engagement near here but it’s not for another hour. I was going to get a bite to eat anyway, so maybe you’d like to come along? If you don’t have plans, that is.

No, I don’t have any plans. I was just gonna go home and crash, that’s all. Sure, I’d like to get something to eat. I didn’t get to eat lunch. I saw his expression change. "But...well, I’m afraid that dollar was all I had