Token

Even brushing past others on the subway made Casey's skin crawl. The cold, prickly fingers of so much resentment ran up the spine and tugged at the neck hairs until that inevitable shudder, only interrupted by more shuffling and bustling, wound them even tighter. They could barely remember when this daily ritual of going to work meant new friends and opportunities. And they certainly could no longer recall what that felt like, left now only with icy pangs of why, why the hell are we out in public.

The train pulled up to Sharing Station... Ironic. Casey almost wanted to smile at the ridiculousness of that sentiment, but was snapped back to reality by the huffing, scrunched face of someone trying to purchase a fare, while actively being annoyed that everyone was trying to get off at the same time. Casey wanted to scream, live with it! But that would require more interest than was available at the moment.

Casey felt like that often these days. That any amount of care and attention required to speak, or worse yet listen to another's senseless, dull words, stuck to one's lips and ears like ice crystals on a lachrymose lake. It takes so much personal energy just to get through the long day. Just to have to do this all again later. Just to get home, to be alone. To breathe.

Just have to make it through this damn crowd.

And why are there so many people today? Casey wondered, neck craned in order to look ahead if 1st street or 2nd street would mean less contact on the way out of this frack. Nudging forward, almost tripping over another soul, seemingly frozen with trepidation. Move people! Please! And with that last push managing to break out into the open air.

Phew. A momentary wave of relief hit Casey's face, but quickly ebbed back as a harsh sun scratched a wayward cheek.

"Did you drop this?" Casey whipped around, scared at the sinister words, aimed so obviously in that direction.

An outstretched arm in a yellow sweater seemed to slow down time, presenting a lithe hand casually clutching a tin, round locket on a string. "You must have dropped it." The bizarre serenity of the whole thing, after such a rough commute, made Casey so slow to react, that by the next moment the figure had disappeared–with a smile of all things–down into the subway station.

And now what? Casey just stood there, letting that momentary peace warp into internal conflict.

They used to do this all the time. People would look out for one another, though who knows why. Even give things to people and not expect anything in return. But returning something to someone? In this day and age? Unheard of. And the locket wasn't even Casey's.

Toss it? Leave it where it was? Too much energy. Casey shoved the locket into a pocket, figuring there would be time later to decide what to do with it. Then girding up against the brisk sunshine, pressed forward to work.

Down the street, around the corner. Then making way up the familiar, thankfully empty staircase toward the office doors. Why would someone just do that if they didn't see who dropped it? That last thought followed Casey through the doors.

There seemed to be a slight energy in the office air. Maybe something was going on that day. Hopefully not. Casey just wanted to get through the day and get home. And to figure out what to do with the locket.

Did you drop this? "Did you see this?" Pat greeted Casey with a sickly, in your face, office demeanor. Indicating toward a computer screen, Pat read out loud a short message from the upper-ups requesting everyone to stay late that day to finalize some blah-blah report. Ugh.

Pat would be a friend, if Casey had the personal energy for such things. But having no tolerance for anything more than casual disdain for co-workers, and a constant harried feeling of hopelessness toward one's career, meant no room for such things. Little tolerance. Casey managed a gritted-teeth head shake, and tested the situation with a body turn. Thankfully Pat detached from the conversation and back into work mode.

People used to converse more too. Casey reached into the pocket where the locket had been scornfully placed, running a pointed finger along the textured face and smoothed outline for the first time. It's a heart. The crease of the shape felt worn, as if from years of being clutched in the hands of someone desperate to hold on to the last remnants of a memory. A time gone by.

A flash of the past panned across Casey's open face. Sometimes I do wish things would return to the old ways. The fleeting feeling passed, as Casey wound through the cube farm and took up the stark but familiar seat facing the west wall.

Someone grumbled nearby about having to work late, and how corporate is the root of all evil.

Jane passed by. Another co-worker with a particularly facetious humor sometimes, but today carrying a very dour look replacing anything that might encourage a conversation. Thankfully. Casey did not feel like mustering up more conversation.

A warm hush slid past Casey's nose. Someone must have a window open. Days are getting longer and the weather seems to be improving, if only superficially. The office buzzed a bit more than usual. Talk of having to stay late always irks everyone.

"Hi," Jane says, passing back by. A bit jarring, but almost making Casey smile out of some knee-jerk response, buried deep in our genetic code somewhere. But muscle memory from a long time of repressing such niceties kicked in, and Casey gave an odd head nod instead. "I can't believe it," Jane continued. Great.

"Yeah, I hate staying late. The commute is always the worst."

"That's not it," Jane postured slightly, hesitant to extend the already strained exchange. "I lost something on the way to work today."

Casey's hands shot into the side pocket, and in a flash returned with the locket, happy to have the mystery solved and to be rid of the perceived burden. "Is this it?" inquiring almost thankfully while handing it over.

"Uh... no." Jane responded. But a rising tide of emotions bordering on warmth, crept up behind the dour-fast look, forcing a break of all social contracts around keeping interactions to a minimum. "My dad used to have a locket like this, only it was copper and it was on a metal wire."

Oh.

"No, " Jane continued absent-mindedly, while prying at the clasp on the strange thing in hand. "I lost my scarf earlier. My dad had given it to me. It was the last thing I had of his." But those thoughts were trailing off as the clasp gave way, and a small piece of folded paper fluttered to the floor.

They both looked at it for a second or two. Then Jane reached down to pick it up. Read it, and passed it on to Casey. It said, "Thank You!" in hand-written script with a #2 pencil. That's it.

That's it? Casey wondered.

Another moment of silence was too much for Casey, and with a blurt, "Do you want it? I mean, I was just going to put it back. Probably."

There was another moment of awkward silence. "Thank you." Jane pensively took the locket, carefully folded and replaced the note, then clasping it shut, it was slid away from view. Jane nodded and continued on.

It was an oddly satisfying exchange.

Casey spent the day in a bit of a daze. Noticing things. There was definitely a window open. A warm spring breeze wound its way through the room occasionally, blowing over an empty coffee cup here, rustling a pile of papers there. Jane showed Pat the locket and traded what seemed like a smile, even if imperceptibly so.

Then Pat helped someone who had dropped some mail. That person held the door for someone who started to yell about it, before backtracking. Casey could swear the words, "Thank you." actually escaped, and wandered around the room before floating out the window with the wind.

People stayed late in a faint silence and got their work done, with oddly no complaining. Almost like people were anxious to get out of there, but not anxious being there.

Finally down the stairs, around the corner, back toward Sharing Station. Casey walked thinking about such an odd day.

"Excuse me," Casey heard someone say, and turned to see. "Did you drop this?" A young kid held out a subway token.

"No, that's not mine."

"Well you can keep it," the kid said, quickly placing it into Casey's hand, then returning to a gallop and disappearing around the corner.

"Thank you!" Casey called back. Then sat there for a moment staring at the token in hand. It looked worn, as if it had been shaved down like an old silver coin, and hosted a small y-shaped hole though the middle. Good for one fare...

But I have a monthly pass!

Casey spun around and hurried down into the station, with only seconds to find someone trying to buy a fare before the subway came. "Here!" with a volume that took Casey by surprise. "You can have this one."

The person shot back an annoyed look, actively trying to find something wrong with it. But then a look of gratitude came over their face, and they took it graciously. "Thank you!"

Others must have wondered about what they saw. It seemed such an innocent, simple thing. Sharing at Sharing Station. Murmurs turned into finger pointing, turned into understanding nods and sympathetic responses. Discussions emerged out of the aether, as if the universe or at least this corner of it settled on something. Something strange yet familiar, pulled from the recesses of our shared past.

The subway pulled up, and Casey got on, sitting forward not back.

There was a distinct difference that evening. The hustling and bustling continued, sure... But one person got up to give their seat to someone else. Another person took the time to give someone directions. Someone sneezed and several people said, "Bless you."

There was almost a camaraderie in the air. People exchanging thoughts, recipes, recommendations, advice. Couples exchanged numbers. By the end of that trip, the warm, fuzzy feeling from a hundred people huddled together wiped away a good part of a bad day.

Tomorrow, I might bring bagels.