All's Fare

Things get left on the New York subway system all the time.

A drunk co-ed abandons her purse after a night of binge-drinking overpriced picklebacks at a hole in the wall bar on the Lower East Side. She schlepped all the way from Brooklyn, so it sits abandoned on the L train- she doesn't worry about anything beyond nursing her hangover; the ID was fake, anyway.

A world-weary businessman 'forgets' his Brooks Brothers blazer, grinding his teeth through the mania of his most recent Cocaine binge. This time, he'll finally give it all up, he thinks. He'll leave behind the Wall Street rat-race and run off to Boca Raton, where the drinks taste like pineapple instead of well scotch, and the girls are friendly, tan, and lack the icy edge of ambition that has kept him touch starved for months; Frigid in more ways than one. (Spoiler alert: he'll be back in his cramped FiDi office in less than 48 hours, head hung low in his new jacket, muttering to himself about overdue child support payments to his 'bitch ex-wife Carol' living large on his hard earned money out in the 'burbs of Long Island.)

It's a time honored tradition, really: a person steps onto the tangled weave of the MTA, and they keep themselves so busy avoiding eye contact and pretending music is playing out of their earbuds, that they neglect to notice the odd wallet falling out of their pocket, or a scarf left draped on the strap-hanger rails. It happens to everyone, at some point;

You just never think it's going to be you.

It was raining today, in the great metropolis we call Manhattan. The January chill clung to skin as tightly as the New Years resolutions fresh on the hivemind. Puddles formed and froze over the grit-covered slush on the pallid pavement. For once, the oppressive heat of the Gotham underground was a welcome reprieve.

Jackson was the careful, cost-conscious sort. I'd been with him since his teen years out in the frozen flatlands of the Midwest, where he'd lived in a modest 2 story home with his Grandmother, or, Oma, as he called her. Oma was a frugal woman, having been raised during the depression; but this didn't stop her from doting on Jackson. In a sense, he was more spoiled than any mega-mansion dwelling brat- Omas hand-made gifts came from her heart, and each one carried a piece of her soul within it. I was one such of these creations- well, half of one, anyway.

One rough, woolen mitten, laying in the filth beneath the fading cotton-candy blue of the C train seating. I can't help but wonder when was the last time someone cleaned under here, if ever. I can recall muddy Minnesota days where Jacksons clumsy, me-clad hands hit the wet ground with a pronounced splorch after running to catch the bus again, and I was still cleaner then. I long for those days, now. I am separated from my other half, one of an incomplete set, doomed to sit under this dirty fucking bench until an even dirtier rat chews a hole in me. 15 years with Jackson, and this is my fate- a cold, wet, New York City graveyard, my funeral hymn a cheerfully robotic repetition of "Stand clear of the closing doors, please!" over and over until I am threadbare.

Left mitten would think i'm being dramatic, but then, what value am I to place in the opinion of the one still comfortably tucked into Jacksons coat pocket? Shit, they must have gotten back to Chelsea by now, to Jacksons 'cozy' 500 square foot closet of an apartment. We'd be in a 3 bedroom colonial just outside of Saint Cloud for the price he pays, but no, no. Jackson was going to make it. He was going to be a star. Yeah. You and 8 million other people, buddy. So now, instead of being hung by the fire to warm the snow from my fibers, i'm stuck under this God damned bench, coated in God knows what, in New York fucking City. Here's to your dreams, Jackson.

I wonder how many times this train has shuttled back and forth from start to end. I can't rely on the amount of people who've gotten on and off, the feet in front of me change practically every station. I've sort of gotten an idea of where we are based on the glimpse of footwear I see, though. A crisp, patent leather pair of Doc Martens below gangly, unshaven legs tells me that we're near the hipster haven of Washington Square, whereas a set of pinched, pink feet crammed into Louboutin's alludes to the gilded streets of Columbus Circle. Standing in front of me now is a set of grime coated work boots and the unmistakable stench of sweat that can only mean one thing- wherever we are, it's not great.

The train shudders to it's next stop, and I await the ever-changing scenery of footwear to swap out for something a bit less mundane- perhaps I'll get to see clown shoes again. That was, at the very least, entertaining by comparison to the never ending sneaker, heel, boot, sandal pipeline. What I get instead is the jarring sound of muffled laughter as the legs in front of me begin to...squat down?

Two piercing blue eyes behind weathered, swollen lids greet me in my hovel of filth. The pupils are pin-point small, the overall gaze so glassy and haunting in its intensity that it burns through me deeper than the stench of alcohol on his breath. A wide, eerie smile forms beneath his chapped lips, revealing a tobacco-stained grin. I'd have chills, if I had a nervous system.

"Little lamb"

What?

He elongates his words, filtered through a saliva filled mouth and a whistling nasal intonation that makes me wish I could press myself further against the train wall. I almost miss being unseen among the debris.

"Litttttleeee Lammmmmbb. I found you!"

He reaches a long, slender arm beneath the bench, snatching me up between two yellowed, claw-like fingers. His hands feel as slimy as they are rough, and I say a silent prayer that he will move on from his fixation on me as I feel his brittle, dirt encrusted nails dig into my fleece. With a deft motion, the strange man scoops me onto his lap and perches himself on the edge of the seat, shaking one spindly leg with a frenetic energy befitting his chaotic demeanor. The coarse, stained denim of his pants is sickeningly crusty, seemingly unwashed in months. Maybe a rat chewing a hole through me wouldn't have been so bad, after all.

"The world is a lamb on my lap" he purrs, stroking the stitching along where Jackson would have kept his thumb. The wiry grey hairs on the back of his hands are almost a perfect match to my own fraying threads. I don't know what this man is on, but I suspect I'd enjoy having some as well.

I take in my new surroundings- we are alone in this particular subway car, and though the underground beyond the windows gives no indication of night or day, I suspect it is quite late. Each new platform we reach has less and less people, and the ones who do wander on and off have the shuffling gait and drunken clumsiness of zombies. I do note, however, something strange: The doors to our cabin may open for them, but no one enters our section, choosing instead to subvert their inanimate gaze to the next car before entering there. It was as if they couldn't see us at all.

"A lost and ancient thing..." the man trails off, and my curiosity is piqued

"The world, that is."

I figured as much- nothing but the mutterings of a crazy man. A crazy man who seems to have mistaken me for an animal. It's the middle of the night, and I am stuck on a train with a nutjob, and man, does he stink.

"Yes, and you smell like fresh daisies" he chuckles.

What? Can he...hear me? That's impossible, right?

"It's like I said" he shuffles back into the seat, still cradling me like a precious, injured bird

"The world has become a lost and ancient thing. Much like you and I, my friend. Don't you think?"

I think i'd be losing my mind if woven threads maintained a concept of mental illness.

"You are matter, little lamb. Unlike me- or, well, I suppose at the moment, I am, too. I was once, I can tell you that much. They say that matter cannot be created or destroyed, but i'll let you in on a little secret - i've got the cheat code" he whispers, giving me a sly wink.

Got it. Double bonkers. Completely out of his mind.

"So many selfish wishes..." he trails off, removing a hand from me to rub the icy white stubble along his jaw. "I want to be beautiful, I want to be rich, I want my wife to lose 30 pounds" a wry laugh escapes his lips. "I want you to fix the problems i've created myself"

"You may be lost, little lamb, but they are lost" he emphasizes, and I truly do not know what to think.

"What I mean to say, is that I empathize. I'd like to go home, too. Trouble is, there's nowhere left for me to call home."

The man rises, holding me above his head as he stretches his lanky arms, and steps forward to the window.

"I want you to imagine something for me, little lamb." he takes a deep, rattling breath. "I want you to imagine you've made something. Something precious and unique, a painting, or something like that."

I'm imagining that he puts me down.

"Now, I want you to imagine this thing, this precious and perfect thing, it...criticizes you. It criticizes you, but it loves you - or it tries to. It's got a voice of its own- voices, so many voices. These voices, they scream over each other, they fight. Which voice needs the most? Which voice loves you the loudest? And the voices they...they try to destroy each other over their love for you, instead of coming together and saying 'thank you'. It's a bloodbath, and you're powerless to stop it. The love behind it all turns to hate, and you are it's namesake."

The man presses his aquiline nose to the filmy glass of the window, leaving swirls of fog against it with his putrid breath.

"Would you feel at home in the presence of a war you created? Could you walk into a place that would destroy you for the sin of making it to begin with, and call it home?"

Whatever this man is going through, it seems like a heavy burden to carry. I, however, am a mitten. I've never even spoken, let alone created something important. People don't ask for anything of me, other than to warm their hands. Jacksons hands. While i'm no stranger to whispered secrets in the dark; to hopes, and dreams, and sorrows - i'm just a bystander to them. An eavesdropper. I have one purpose, and I serve it well.

Had a purpose, I guess. Now i'm just subway trash.

"An eavesdropper, huh? You know- I often feel that way, too."

This was starting to get out of hand. How could he-

"How could I know what you're thinking, little lamb?" he completes my thought with one of his characteristic chuckles.

"Our purposes are different, that much is certain" he muses. "But we each have one to fulfill, and while the stakes are different, neither is more important, really." he lays me flat on his narrow palm, staring through me once again with that impossibly piercing gaze. "You, little lamb, are not done with yours, yet."

He presses his other palm to me tightly, and before I have time to process what he's said, he firmly plants me against the window.

"Look."

Light, bright white light, assaults my senses as the mans firm grasp against me begins to fade. I feel as if I am flying, fear and elation overtaking me as I soar.

"All things that fly must fall, little lamb. I'll be seeing you again. Be good."

I hear the mans laughter wane, as if he's not right behind me, vanishing further and further into the distance. I hit something soft with a wet thud, and I realize that he is gone. As I regain my composure, I realize something else: i'm no longer on the subway. The bright white around me focuses into view, and it is...snow. Above me, barely within my view is a door. A grey, metal door, with a dented bronze handle that is far beyond the time it needed to be replaced. This all feels so familiar.

I laid there for a while, taking in the sounds of the city around me, trying to process what had just happened to me, until I hear it: the quick pace of steps approaching me, and a voice I'd recognize anywhere.

"Oh my fucking God, Sydney, you're not going to believe this. I just got home, and the thing was in front of my building the whole time. Waste of 3 days trying to track a damn mitten down, and it was right here. Unbelievable. Listen, i've gotta go, but i'll ping you later about drinks."

Jackson.

He picked me up, dusting off the snow and debris, and muttered about how I needed to be dry-cleaned.

I wonder about the peculiar man on the subway sometimes, where he came from, and where he might be now. I wonder if he ever found what he was looking for- what we were both looking for, and where I somehow found myself.

Home.