JESUS ON THE 2 LINE

JESUS ON THE 2 LINE
Friday, November 24, 2023 by Noël Turner

Categories: Friday's Fiction / GUEST AUTHORS

SPECIAL

SHORT STORY

Noël Turner

FICTION FRIDAY

Geez, the stench. The funk of New York City’s eight million seemed trapped in the close-quartered D car of the 2 Line. The end of the workday wore its exhaustion in mussed hair, grey pallor, and hangdog expressions. Heads pounded, feet ached. The strobing effect of tunnel lights, flashing on and off as the train dashed beneath the city, added to the dizzying effect of it all. She covered her nose with a white cotton handkerchief and took short, shallow breaths.

She hadn’t eaten lunch, no time. Breakfast? No. Oversleeping had taken care of that. She had, however, managed to snag the last available seat in the car. There was a TV dinner and a cup of tea awaiting her. A hot bath, with bubbles, and a quiet night-in would wash away the day. Looking around her, she figured she’d need it.

A young mother, her children whining in their exhaustion, looked to be at the end of her tether. Holding tightly to the grab bar with one hand, she hummed to the unhappy toddler on her hip, while two more sat at her feet. Couldn’t she get them quiet? The overly-amorous couple at the far end of the car, limbs intertwined- probably works by the hour. On the other end, a young man played a second-hand guitar and sang an old hymn of the faith. Wearing jeans and a Jesus T-shirt, his smile held the attention of those enjoying his music. Now, that was better. “Walk With Me, Lord.” She listened, eyes closing, nodding along in time to the music. The kid gave it a bit of an updated style. Too bad, she thought. Apparently, the old ways aren’t good enough for some.

Across from her was a fellow who sat quietly, sketching something onto a piece of paper. It was crumpled and used, as was he. His body was inked from stem to stern in vibrant colors and hues, his hair slicked back and secured in low hanging ponytail. Combat-style boots and torn denim, a worn leather jacket completed his look. She rolled her eyes, then leaned her head heavily against the metal grab bar. What is wrong with people today? She sat among them, the unwashed and unwanted and shocker head.

Raising her hand to her chest, her fingers traced the silver cross she wore. She squeezed her eyes shut and silently gave thanks that she’d not turned out like these. She was well put together and had a good job, a home, and a church. Her days were useful and fulfilling. If only she could avoid certain types of people … surround herself with those more like herself.

Thank God I’m nothing like them.

The train stopped. People got off and others boarded. Stop after stop, between Manhattan and the Bronx, more of the same traded places. Faces changed. The aroma of weariness remained, hanging like a stewy fog. It was cloying.

“Next stop, Morris Park,” blared the mechanical voice from above.

Thank Heaven, she thought to herself. She grabbed her bag, lifted it, and perched it on her shoulder, standing to fight her way to the door. Pressing through the throng of bodies, she cleared the door and stepped onto the platform. She then dropped, like a stone, to the ground, the world tilting on its axis.

Those around her shrieked and stepped back. They gathered their children and turned away as if in fear. Commuters dashed up the stairs, unseeing. All around her was noise and flashing light, yet she neither heard nor saw. It was a blur.

Help. She imagined voicing her need, her fear, but heard nothing. Had she even made a sound? All around her, people scurried, fled. They saw her and ran, or perhaps, in the rush, she was rendered invisible. Help.

“Hey,” she heard, as if from a great distance. “You okay? Let me help.”

A face appeared in the fog before her. She couldn’t make it out. A hand, warm and slightly calloused, touched hers. She grabbed a hand, her own quaking. She was pulled to her feet and led, quite blindly, to a nearby bench. Closing her eyes against the blur and buzz about her, she dropped her head and slowed her breathing.

“That’s better. Keep breathing.”

His voice was a soft, comforting baritone. His hand rested securely along her forearm, steadying her on the bench.

“Are you ill? Should I call a doctor?”

Shaking her head, she took a deeper breath as her head cleared.

“No, just haven’t eaten today. It’s nothing. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Good, good. Just keep breathing. I’ll sit with you ’til you feel better. Live far from here?”

“No, not far at all. Just up the street.”

Sitting up, she reclined against the back of the bench and sighed. Her breath came more easily, the wave of dizziness calming. Opening her eyes, she looked at her white knight and found a gangly young man, covered in tattoos, smiling warmly up at her. The kid from the train.

“Here. Eat this,” came a new voice. “It’s just a granola bar, but it’ll put something on your stomach. The kids like them.”

She turned and found the young mother, a now-sleeping child in her arms, her other two standing, wide-eyed, at her side. Shaking her head, she eyed them all in wonder. Looking around, she found another slew of busy strangers, businessmen in bespoke suits, professionals of all kinds, dashing hither and yon, unseeing.

But these, the noisy, weary, unkempt about her, these had seen her.

Looking down at her pressed skirt and silken blouse, her designer heels and handbag, her brow creased in confusion. It didn’t make sense. Raising her eyes again, she found them watching her, concern evident in their gazes. When others had fled, they had stayed. Those she might have assumed would rush to her aid either couldn’t be bothered or simply didn’t notice. These, whom her mind had deemed the least among them, had stopped. They had seen.

If she had imagined such a scene before, she would have envisioned the opposite reaction. People more like herself would have stopped to render aid, the morally upright, those who had it all together and neatly packaged too. Then, she was struck. They were like her, and she was like them.

She bristled at the contrast, at her hubris. Looking down, she straightened her skirt and considered the young man kneeling before her. His attire was nothing like her own. It was rumpled like slept-on sheets. Where her hair was carefully styled, his was thrown back and gathered recklessly at his neck.

His well-worn, little-cleaned clothing wrapped a clean soul, whereas her immaculate couture housed an ugly spirit. The younger mother of three fussy, cried-out children, kept a song on her lips, brought forth from her heart. While she had seen them only with judgment and derision, they had seen her with compassion.

Which of them was a true reflection of love? Of acceptance? The answer was clear, and she found herself bereft at the revelation.

Rising to her feet, her eyes downcast, she mumbled a shamed, “Thank you,” to each of them. Gathering her belongings, she shuffled toward the stairs that would take her to the surface, to her home. Pausing at the base of the steps, she turned. Meeting their gazes, she repeated her “Thank you,” more clearly. With a final “Forgive me,” she turned and trudged up the steps.

They watched her go, shared a look, and then returned to their own journeys.

She closed the door to her apartment behind her, dropped her things, and fell to her knees, shaking like leaves in the wind.

“Oh God,” she cried aloud. “Make me like them.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Noël Turner lives in Southeast Texas with her husband and two young adult children. A proud native Texan, she swears by Tex-Mex and iced tea. A music teacher and vocalist by trade, she often draws inspiration from the community in which she serves. She writes of strong, independent women, with a touch of romance. When not working, she can be found lounging around the campsite with a good book and her spoiled pups. The author can be reached at n.turner3@me.com

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