“Next Stop: Fulton Street”

The subway train. Modern man’s ferry to the infinite possibilities of the American metropolis, reducing the vast sprawl to a series of dots on a line. Where it takes you is only limited by the reaches of your imagination and regularly scheduled maintenance. But all too often, these dream vessels are transformed by routine — the grooves carved into a man’s spirit by quotidian life — until they become something else entirely: steel traps, from which there is no escape.

Our story begins in a crowded station on a Wednesday evening that really feels like it should be a Thursday. The workday is over, and the whole of lower Manhattan is eager to be on their way — back to the comfort of their homes, clinging to the hope that they can meet the delivery guy without running into their roommate.

The man you see bounding down into the station, careful to avoid the unidentifiable liquid pooling at the bottom of the stairs, is Daryl Lipke. Like most of the people around him, he’s tired after a day of meetings and conversations about whether a meeting should be held. What Daryl wants more than anything is to take the downtown 2 train back across the river and to speak to literally no one for the rest of the night. Before doing it all again tomorrow.

With the train idling in the station, Daryl hurries through the turnstile and slips between the closing doors. He celebrates quietly to himself as he sidles up to the bar at the center of the car. But what Daryl doesn’t know is that before this trip is over, he has a lesson to learn about the tracks we lay for ourselves and the terror that awaits us when we can’t break free from the route.

Next stop: Fulton Street.

—

The podcast playing through Daryl’s earbuds had just finished an ad for antimicrobial underwear when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Daryl, expecting to be slashed in the face by a stranger, was surprised to see Louis, his coworker from one row over, standing next to him. Though they took the same train home every night, Daryl started entering the station via a different staircase weeks earlier to avoid drawn-out, obligatory conversations with Louis.

“Daryl, what’s up, buddy?”

“Not much,” said Daryl, mournful as he slipped his earbuds back into their case.

“There was a crazy guy down the platform screaming at people. Had to move. I get enough of that at the office.”

“Yeah.” Daryl nodded and made a sound that resembled laughter.

The train soon slowed to a stop. The two coworkers shuffled around to make room for the exiting passengers to slip by, and a warm, but not entirely human, voice announced the station: Fulton Street. When Daryl looked back up at Louis, the smile on his face had faded, a warning light for the less-than-comfortable conversation on the way.

“Listen, man,” Louis began, as if Daryl wasn’t already well acquainted with the fact that had he to listen. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing it up. I heard about the promotion. That blows, dude.”

It had, in fact, blown. It had blown when Daryl’s boss delivered the news with a soulless grin after weeks of avoided eye contact and unanswered emails. It had blown listening to his overpaid, underqualified, and creatively bankrupt superior tell him that his salary requests were unreasonable — selfish, even. It had blown that Daryl knew his only option was to nod, showing that he understood that a raise like that wouldn’t be fair to his coworkers. It had blown walking back to his desk to quietly finish the day’s list of uncrossed to-do’s.

But in that moment, Daryl doubted that it had ever blown as badly as having Louis From One Row Over remind him of it all.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied, flashing a dim smile.

“I just don’t know why you put up with it.” Louis continued on, but Daryl wasn’t going to follow. He allowed his coworker’s shouted condolences to melt into the noise around him, letting them become indistinguishable from the call and repeat of the drumming wheels and the screeching track, the hum from the too-cold air conditioning, and the song inexplicably playing over the speakers of someone’s phone.

When the train jerked to a halt, Daryl tried to remember the last thing Louis said to him, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter. Every passenger had gone silent and turned an ear to the ceiling, awaiting an explanation for the sudden stop from on high.

“Evening, everyone,” a bored voice said eventually. “We’re going to be held momentarily due to a police investigation at the next station.”

A collective sigh rang out as only one can in a stalled train.

“Goddamn MTA,” Louis added helpfully. “Eight million people in the city and, what, probably six use the subway every day? I don’t know how the mayor expects to keep his job when this shit is happening every day.”

“It’s not the mayor,” called out a seated older woman, her husband quietly advising her not to get involved. “It’s the governor’s responsibility. Blame him!”

“I’ll blame both of them,” Louis said. “How about that?”

“Don’t take it out on the mayor, you idiot,” the woman said. She was growing red in the face. “You’ll screw the city up.”

“Oh!” Louis exclaimed in sarcastic surprise. “I’d hate to do that.”

“Dude, drop it,” Daryl said in a pointed whisper. “She’s going to have a heart attack.”

“Please,” the woman’s husband said, now appealing to Louis instead of his wife. “Enough.”

“What’s wrong with a little civil discourse?”

The other passengers were growing uneasy as well. Some had taken out their earbuds to see what the commotion was. “Shut up!” a few of them called to Louis from their seats. “Stop. Talking,” yelled one in particular.

The train pushed them forward, then threw them back as it started up again. The sudden motion came as a relief to Daryl, who wondered if he could come up with an excuse quickly enough to get off at the next station and switch cars.

The PA overhead crackled, interrupting the thought. “Next stop: Fulton Street,” said the recorded voice.

The announcement hit Daryl like a dissonant chord struck in rebellion by a child forced to play piano at Union Square, yet no one around him reacted. “Did that say Fulton Street?”

“I think so,” Louis replied.

“Didn’t we just pass Fulton?”

“I guess not.”

Daryl was so confident that they had already stopped at Fulton Street, but maybe he was wrong. After all, he hadn’t really been paying attention. Did he ever? He shrugged off the confusion and chalked it up to his long week. The train pulled into Fulton a few silent minutes later. Having run out of things to talk about — as they usually did — Louis and Daryl, in wordless harmony, agreed to stare at their respective phones for the rest of the journey.

It was only when the train stopped between stations again that Daryl tore himself away from the screen.

“Evening, everyone,” said the bored voice. “We’re going to be held momentarily due to a police investigation at the next station.”

“Goddamn MTA,” Louis said. “Eight million people in the city and, what, probably six use the subway every day? I don’t know how the mayor expects to keep his job when this shit is happening every day.”

“It’s not the mayor,” said the seated older woman, her husband again placing a calming hand on her arm. “It’s the governor’s responsibility. Blame him!”

Daryl couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I’ll blame both of them,” Louis replied, as Daryl feared he would. “How about that?”

“Don’t take it out on the mayor, you idiot! You’ll screw the city up.”

“Oh! I’d hate to do that.”

“Are you messing with me right now?” said Daryl, unsure of whom he was asking.

Louis turned to him, appearing to see the panic Daryl’s eyes. “What’s wrong with a little civil discourse?”

When the train sprang to life again, the movement didn’t come with the same sense of relief Daryl had experienced earlier. At least he wasn’t repeating himself, but the thought wasn’t much of a balm.

“I’m actually getting off here,” Daryl said, shuffling toward the door. “My cat sitter is having birthday drinks, and I’m worried if I don’t go, the quality of the care will slip — “

“Next stop: Fulton Street,” said the speaker overhead.

“Are you fucking serious?” Daryl called out.

Louis inched toward him, holding out his hand as if unsure of what Daryl would do next. “Calm down, bro,” he said. “Get a drink, chill for 15, and then bail. Your cat will be fine.”

“No.” Daryl could hear his voice growing ragged, his throat tightening. “You heard that.”

“Heard what?”

The train pulled into the station and Daryl stepped out of the car without another word. Louis watched him through the dirty windows as the train continued on into the tunnel, revealing the stop’s name spelled out on the station’s tile wall.

Fulton Street.

The quiet of the empty platform was an immediate respite. Even if he didn’t have an idea of what he had just experienced or a plan for what to do next, Daryl found the air more breathable there. He drew in as much as he could. It smelled like lasagna soaked in gasoline, a comforting dose of normalcy.

When the next train arrived on the uptown track, the opposite of his previous direction seemed as good as any possible next step for Daryl. He crept up to the doors and watched them divide.

There, standing in the bluish light of the car, was Louis.

“What’s up, buddy?” Louis said, his voice noticeably unburdened with the terror of Daryl’s past twenty minutes.

Daryl’s body carried him forward onto the car, unwilling to wait at Fulton Street any longer. The doors closed behind him, and only once moving north did Daryl allow himself to wonder about Louis’ presence on the train. Had he scared his coworker enough to make him double back at Wall Street to check on him?

“You didn’t have to do that,” Daryl said to Louis.

“Do what?”

“Turn around. I’m fine. I just got a little spooked.”

“What are you talking about?” Louis smiled as if he was waiting for the rest of joke.

“We were on the same train, going downtown.”

“Yeah,” Louis said, laughing now. “I know.”

The train stopped. “Evening, everyone,” the conductor said. “We’re going to be held momentarily due to a police investigation at the next station.”

Daryl would have screamed had he been able to find the breath.

“Goddamn MTA!”

“What is wrong with you?!” Daryl heard the words come from his mouth more than he said them.

Louis’s face wrinkled in confusion. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said. “The mayor is the one who has a problem.”

“It’s not the mayor,” cried the old woman from her seat, exactly where Daryl had left her on the downtown train. “It’s the governor’s responsibility. Blame him!”

“You people have all lost your minds.” Sweat was streaming down from the top of Daryl’s head. He backed away from Louis and the seated woman, down the car and toward the emergency exit. He heard the metal door slide open and smelled the man who walked through before he saw him.

Daryl turned to find himself staring into the chest of a massive man. He wore a white suit, too small by every measure and stained in colors that stretched across the filth spectrum. A noxious mix of ammonia and sulfur filled the car as soon as he entered it. The pallid, heavy lids of his eyes were closed, as if in deep thought. He stood impossibly tall in front of the exit door, his bald head nearly scraping the car’s corrugated ceiling. His hands were clasped in front of him like a tenor about to perform.

“Heed my words, brothers and sisters,” the man began without opening his eyes. His voice reverberated on the metal sheets lining the car’s walls and sounded as if the train itself was talking.

“Oh, great.” Louis had joined Daryl down the car and spoke near his ear. “The lunatic followed me.” The coworkers backed away from the exit as the towering stranger moved toward the center of the train.

“Man is nothing more than a flock without need of a shepherd,” the bald man continued his sermon, his arms stretching nearly the span of the car. “The fields and lanes you travel are not of your own choosing. You answer to the risk-averse whims of the aristocratic collective. You are bound, and you accessorize your restraints.”

As the man moved onto the next car, his words lingered, banging like a plastic bucket drum inside Daryl’s addled mind.

The speaker sounded above him. “Next stop: Fulton Street.”

“That man speaks the truth!” Daryl heard himself cry down the car. His throat felt as though he had swallowed a pocketful of change. Something was happening to him, but the transformation had begun long before the bald prophet stepped onto the train, before the loop, before Fulton Street. “What have we done to ourselves?”

All around Daryl, passengers had pulled out their headphones to listen. Some texted or started to film. Others shouted back. “Shut up!” a few of them called to Daryl from their seats. Another yelled, “Stop. Talking.”

“No! Not until you all see.” Daryl stalked up and down the car, searching for someone else who saw what was happening. He could feel himself breaking apart, into what he didn’t know, but he took solace in the fact that he would no longer be the same.

Louis eyeballed Daryl from beside the door and winced as his coworker came closer.

“Louis, you know what’s happening. You saw me get off the train and get back on.” Daryl had grabbed two fistfuls of Louis’s J. Crew gingham-patterned Oxford, a twin of which hung in his own closet. “You have to see!”

“What’s wrong with a little civil discourse?” Louis asked with placid calmness.

Daryl howled. “That didn’t even make sense this time!”

The grappling coworkers practically fell backwards together onto the platform when the doors opened at Fulton Street. Louis lost his balance, but Daryl’s grip kept him on his feet. When they were back upright, they stood together on the platform five feet from two cops watching the whole clumsy dance.

“That’s him, officers,” the old woman yelled from inside the open doors. Daryl looked back to find her pointing directly at him. “He was raving like a maniac. He attacked that man.”

More conscious of his grip on Louis, Daryl let go and launched into what he knew was more explanation than the police would have time for. “No, no, no, please just let me talk.” He backed away to buy a few seconds, but soon, they were on him. The cuffs were icy on his wrists, which, like the rest of him, had grown flush in nervous heat. The officers guided him through the turnstile and up the stairs, out into when or where Daryl could not say.

Back on the platform at Fulton Street, a two-note tone sounded and the passengers who had gathered to watch the mad man escorted from the station silently moved back onto the train and into their respective seats and the poles they leaned against, ignorant of the defiant fists pinned beneath their bodies.

The conductor’s voice sounded overhead. “Sorry about that, folks. You probably noticed, but a track mix up had us circling Fulton Street. Thankfully that’s all cleared up now, so we can keep on heading downtown. Wall Street is next. Thank you for your patience.”