I swiped my Metro Card at the entrance to the G train's Greenpoint Avenue station in Brooklyn and was told to “Please swipe again,” so I swiped again. It was, however, necessary for me to swipe yet again. We danced like this for at least seven swipes until the message changed to “Just used,” rendering my subway pass useless for the next eighteen minutes.
A helpful man servicing the turnstile to my right, pulled out a special Metropolitan Transit Authority employee card and swiped it for me, and I was told by the turnstile that I could now “Go.” I thanked the MTA worker and he smiled back modestly--a pleasant exchange--then I went down stairs to the platform to await the train to take me to work.
A few moments later, I was hurrying to catch the train, which, because it is the shortest in New York’s subway system, stops midway down the platform. So I found myself jogging along with about three or four others. I was just starting a new job after a period of unemployment, so I did not want to be late. Beside me, another desperate man yelled “Hold the doors!” A Latina’s heels clacked against the concrete. An older, heavier Polish woman’s breath came out in short, audible gasps beside me as she struggled to reach the train before it left. I wanted to beat her so I could hold the doors for her so she could slow down and not have to work so hard. But then, a loud, forceful “Hey, I said ‘stop’!” came to the fore of this commuters’ din.
Actually, the voice came from right behind me. It sounded so commanding that I was sure that it would hold the train. I looked back to identify its source. It was a police officer, but he wasn't trying to catch the train. He was trying to catch me.
“Didn’t you hear me yelling?” he barked.
“No, I didn’t...I..uh…. Sorry. Is something wrong?” I asked, panting after my run.
“How did you get in here?” He ignored my question. His tone was accusatory, his posture aggressive.
“Through the turnstile at the end of the platform,” I answered obediently.
“No, how did you get in here!” His eyes hardened and his lip curled a bit on the right, like a snarl, or it could have been just a facial tic because it recurred throughout my interrogation.
“I swiped at the turnstile down there.”
“Let me see your Metro Card,” he demanded. I pulled it out and showed it to him.
“Is this the card you swiped with?”
“Yes...no...I mean, it kept telling me to swipe again so the token guy swiped his card for me.”
“Token guy? There aren't any token guys anymore.” His lip curled again.
“Right...I...uh...mean the MTA guy who was servicing the other turnstile,” I corrected myself.
“And he swiped for you? Why would he do that? What's wrong with your card?” He sounded doubtful, suspicious. As a matter of fact, he looked twitchy and nervous, as if I posed some sort of threat to him, which was flattering, but it made me feel uncomfortable all the same, as well as sick to my stomach. When I'm nervous my stomach always gets upset, even hurts. He was huge, about 6 feet and maybe 280 lbs. For the record: I’m 5’ 7” and weigh about 150 lbs.
“My card wasn't...uh...working...so he helped me.” I was getting so nervous I was struggling with my answers. I even sounded suspicious to myself!
“What's wrong with this one?” He boomed while holding out my Metro Card, which looked like a tiny Post-It Note in his large hand.
“I don't know. I think it was the turnstile.”
He looked uncertain, like he didn't know what to do. He handed the card back to me. “Okay, come with me to the end of the platform.” He took my arm and nudged me in the direction from which I had just come.
“But I've got to go to work,” I said meekly as another train barreled into the station.
“I said ‘Come with me to the end of the platform.’ I'm searching your bags.”
“Search my bags? But what for?” I still sounded guilty!
“I don’t have to tell you.” He was resolute.
I was carrying two bags. My mind raced to remember what was in each of them, as if I may carrying something illegal or even dangerous, which was unlikely. One contained my laptop computer and its many accessories; the other, my personal effects like eye glasses, a novel, an old The New Yorker magazine, a date book, some clothes, a couple CDs. Nothing bad. No...wait! The CDs! Yesterday at work, C-- and I were trading CDs and loading them on our laptops. I have decided that you might as well copy every music CD you come across, whether you like the artist or not, simply because you can, and you never know when a random song might come in handy. So I had copied whatever she had at her cubicle. But last night I had inadvertently packed up two of hers--Patsy Cline’s “12 Greatest Hits” and Maria Callas’s “La Divina”! Not the kind of stuff I usually listen to, but if this investigation went any further, these two items would be entered into my criminal profile! A misinformed notion of my “musical” tastes would come out in court or the papers. This would only spur more speculation about what might be found on my computer!
The cop pulled out my laptop looked it up and down and asked, “What's this for?”
“It’s a computer,” I was trying to be helpful.
His eyes narrowed and his lip curled on the right side again. He thought I was mocking him! “I mean, why do you have a computer with you?”
“It’s for...uh...work.”
“What are you, a salesman?”
A salesman? “No, I’m a writer, sort of a reporter.”
“Sort of?”
“Yes, well I report on the nonprofit sector, but mostly through press releases and what appears in the papers. So I really don't consider myself a reporter per se...” He didn't care. I was rambling. I ramble a lot when I'm nervous or upset. He had already moved on.
“There’s a change of clothes in this bag. Why?” He lifted up a pair of dark-green corduroys, a blue button-down office shirt, a t-shirt, some boxer shorts, and socks. I remember packing them up this morning at home thinking that it was a good outfit to wear to work tomorrow. My new girlfriend likes the pants and the shirt brings out my blue eyes, or so I’ve been told. I was planning on staying at her place tonight, though we hadn’t made plans that I would. We had just started dating and I didn’t want to make any assumptions, but I was hoping that I would, so I took a change of clothes for work just in case. Now they were strewn about on the filthy platform. Up to this point, my underwear has never been seen lying on the floor of the subway. They had been my favorite pair--dark green with gold chevrons--and though clean, now they looked about as sordid as a used condom discarded in an alley.
“They’re for work. I might not come home tonight,” I answered.
“You might not come home? Why don't you know? What are you doing?” He was getting more and more suspicious of me, and aggressive. I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything I could have done but I was scared to death about what would happen to me. I didn’t even want to move because I thought any sudden movement might give him a reason to shoot me.
“I was thinking about staying over my at my girlfriend’s apartment tonight.”
“And you just happen to need a change of clothes?”
“Well, I don't want to...uh...wear the same clothes to work.”
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t look good.”
“What wouldn’t look good?”
“To wear the same clothes to work two days in a row.”
“Why not? Do you have something to hide?”
“Well...I guess, people would talk.”
“Why, because it looks suspicious?”
“No!” It escaped my mouth a bit too fast and high pitched! “I...uh...mean that people would know that I hadn’t gone home last night.
“So what? Why should you care what anyone thinks?”
“I just don't like sharing that kind of information with my colleagues.”
“What kind of information?”
“My sex...I mean my private life.” Why was he putting me through this? Why should I have to tell him that I hoping to have sex tonight?
"Who said anything about sex?" He asked, screwing up his face like he was disgusted. But my answers finally seemed to satisfy him and he told me to pack up my things and get on the train.
He left without saying goodbye. I hurried to gather my things so I could catch the next train, which was now pulling into the station. I made it just in time, just as flustered and out of breath as I had been just before my interrogation and the subsequent search. It was as if the interrogation had never happened!
I quickly composed myself in the car. Slung one bag over my shoulders and held the laptop case in my hand and smoothed out my sports coat. That’s when I noticed that my fly was down. I know very well that these pants have an unreliable zipper but they look good on me. They’re slimming and fit well. And they look good with my sports coat, sort of completes the look. It’s just that when I wear them, I have to keep checking the fly. Is it up or down? Usually when I check, it’s just starting to make its descent. Other than the zipper, there’s nothing wrong with them. So I continue to wear them.
But how long had it been down this time? Did it just happen when I ran for the train or was it down the whole time the cop was squatting in front of me, riffling through my bags, inquiring as to why I didn’t want anyone to think that I might not sleep at home tonight.
hi
Posted by: ativan lorazepam | June 30, 2006 at 07:31 PM