Conscious and Above Ground

I always feel lucky to see subway construction. Late at night, the underground tunnels are populated by workers. Yellow Caution tape blocks off the area and men are on the tracks—the forbidden ravine. Rarely exposed station corners are flooded with florescent light and everything is illuminated for what seems like the first time. And you can breathe easy that a train won’t come barreling down the tracks, ready to rupture your eardrum as the metal wheels skid against the metal tracks.
Of course, unless you’re trying to get home from an unknown part of Brooklyn at 2am, like I was. We had just come from the most underwhelming amateur basement art show, where we made ourselves at home on the couch for far longer than was socially acceptable. The party went on around us—milling strangers drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and pontificating about a photo of a blurry stuffed animal. It was only my second week in New York, so everything was new, including my friend, Chris, who had found this party listing on the Internet, and whose sense of direction would be a godsend right now.

We navigated our way back around Morgan Avenue to wait for the free shuttle bus that would take us to the nearest operating subway.

“Yo Chris!” called a voice behind us. We swung around to look. The elfish-looking boy from the party walked toward us with his lanky, blonde friend. He had spent far too long lecturing us about Hindu philosophy while stroking the strand of mala beads hanging around his neck. I had stared blankly at him from my cozy place on the couch, but Chris had been more engaged, as she usually was.  Her ability to switch on her smile was sometimes disgusting to me, although it was a convenient counterpart to my aloofness.

“Long time no see,” he said as he approached. Behind him, the blonde boy’s hand shot up in an awkward wave.

“Hey! What are your names again?” Chris asked.

            “I’m Leo,” said the blonde boy, his voice two octaves higher than I had expected.

            “Elliot,” said the Hindu theorist. “Listen,” he went on, “We’re going to this party in LES. You guys should totally come.”

            Chris turned to me. “Wanna go?”

“What’s LES?” I whispered in attempt to hide my ignorance.

“Lower East Side.”

I looked at her with “hell no” eyes. We had only known each other for a week, but had been communicating via glances since the moment she sat down next to me and announced that she was inserting herself into whatever conversation was ensuing because, well, that was the name of the game during orientation week. The first week of college is social lubricant—speed friending, magic shows, dance parties in the student center—a week to make everything that follows slide just a little easier.

            “Sorry guys, I think we’re gonna head back,” she said.

            “Lame,” said Elliot as the bus pulled up, revealing the previously hidden pile of trash on the curb. The four of us filed onto the bus, packed even at 2:30am.

            Twenty minutes later, we were headed west, Manhattan bound, on the L. Union Square is the fourth stop and equidistant between Chris’ dorm and mine. Although the bus hadn’t been, the train was fairly empty. We all sat on an open bench, the seat freezing from the unexpected cold of early fall.

            “What the fuck is this guy?” said Elliot, motioning to the twenty-something year old kid sprawled on his back on the bench across from us. He was wearing perfectly tailored, European cut corduroys that exposed his argyle socks and accentuated his polished Oxfords. His dark hair had been meticulously styled, although it was significantly ruffled at this point and various pieces were pointing in various directions. He was far from consciousness.

            “Idiot. Let’s take his wallet,” said Leo. “Teach him a lesson.” Elliot danced around him, throwing his hands in the sleeping boy’s comatose face. Leo reached for the bulge in the boy’s right pocket. He was out cold and the wallet slipped out effortlessly. Leo lifted it into the air like a trophy and bounced on his long legs in excitement.

            “Are you serious? You are not going to steal his wallet,” I said.

            “Oh yes we are. This kid’s an asshole,” Elliot said, the tuft of hair on his chin bopping up and down with his words. “He’s too privileged to take responsibility for himself and it’s about time someone did him some damage.”

            “Are you kidding me?” I said, dumbfounded and angry. I was so taken aback that I couldn’t even muster a response. Chris, on the other hand, loved to be the calm and collected voice of reason.

            “We don’t know anything about his life. It isn’t your job to teach him a lesson,” she said.

            “We need the money more than him. That’s for sure,” said Leo.

            “Yeah, he’s a stupid fuck,” said Elliot.

            I could feel myself shutting down—writing them off for being such insensitive creeps. Chris, queen of mediation, pressed on.

            “But regardless of how entitled he may be, it isn’t your job to ‘teach him a lesson.’ He has clearly had a bad night and is going to wake up at a ridiculous hour at a random stop on the L. That seems like enough of a punishment,” she said.

            “If we don’t take his money, someone else will. So we might as well cash in,” said Elliot. He was still dancing around the boy’s body like a wolf waiting to attack its prey.

            “Ah—we’ll write him a note! We can teach the lesson without taking his wallet,” she said.

            Leo looked at her skeptically. I glared at them, appalled that this conversation was happening and without an ounce of patience for their argument.

            This is First Avenue, said the mechanical subway voice. Chris hurriedly ripped a page out of her journal and began to write. I peered over her leather shoulder pad with a repulsed interest.

            “Rough night? Hope you’re okay. Look, we just wanted to tell you that we contemplated taking your wallet—“

            “Tell him I had it in my hands!” squealed Leo.

            Chris ignored him and continued to write. “2 out of 4 of us would have taken it. Compassion prevailed tonight, but understand that it could have taken a turn. We wish you the best.” She folded the letter and handed it to Elliot, who tucked it into the boy’s fine corduroy pocket, right next to his wallet.

            This is 14^th Street. Connections are available to—we jumped up, ready to get off.

            “Hey, you’re pretty cool. Do you wanna hang out sometime?” Leo asked Chris in his awkward, skinny boy way.

            “Uhh absolutely!” she said as we stepped off the train. I looked at her with utter appreciation as well as the knowledge that I will never fully understand her.

Three sets of stairs and we were back in the bustle of 3am Union Square. The lights still bright, the B-boys still performing, the Food Emporium swamped with intoxicated snackers. To be in New York City on a Saturday night—conscious and above ground.