Great Kills Review

Winter 2008 – Volume II, issue 1

 

 

 

Jonathan Segol

 

 

 

Flavor on the 5

 

            Ten feet beneath Flatbush, our train slows to walking speed and the air conditioners wheeze their last gasp.  Outside the window, the graffiti slows to where the authors’ names grow nearly legible.   On the right, the local train passes us, its red circle denoting a transfer we’ll miss.

            At least a dozen children sit accompanied by their parents.  Gradually, questions of “How much longer?” and “What’s going on?” sound quietly from every corner.  Sometimes the loudspeaker grants an explanation, but today that task is left to parents:

            “Soon.”

            “Why don’t you do your homework?”

            “Shut your mouth or I take out the belt.”

            As the cool air recedes, the whining grows and the grumbling increases.  We round a turn and a screech eclipses the conversation for ten seconds.  It’s only the brakes.

            Slow as a worm, we pull up to the platform.  The doors open.  Nobody steps off.  One person steps on.  Unmistakable—the red leather hat that matches his jacket that matches the huge plastic clock hanging on his chest.  It can only be one person.

            I want to push by, shake his hand, and gush compliments.  Wouldn’t anyone?  Shouldn’t they walk up babbling, Yeah boyyyy.  Cold lamping.  Bring the noise, love ya.  Somehow he sits behind a blazing red clock and sunglasses, enjoying the anonymity of someone not dressed exactly as they did on MTV.  I follow decorum and keep my distance, amazed that no one else seems to notice.

            One exception is the burly man dressed in black who sidles up next to him.  I eavesdrop intently:

            --How you been?

            --Can’t complain.

            --Something new this summer, I heard right?

            --Mm-hm.

            --Won’t have to ride the subway no more.

            --Got that.

            --My stop. Peace.

            --Be good.

            We pull into Atlantic Avenue.  The doors open, the burly man steps out, and we keep rolling, slower still.  I barely hear the din around me as I watch him lean against the door, this vivacious character now keeping each move subtle and small.  The rest of the car is looking at somebody else.

            --You going to stop whimpering?  Do I got to take out Mr. Belt?

            Her kids gasp and sniffle, staring in shock like the rest of us.  We’re all biting our lips, trying not to look, but wondering whether to step in.  At this moment, my secret celebrity walks to the woman and speaks to her, softly and politely:

            --Ma’am, you have beautiful children.

            Startled, she thanks the man.   In the next moment, the subway doors open and he bounds out, bright clock and all.

            I lean over also quietly:

            --How about that?  Flava Flav just praised your children.

            The woman’s eyes widen.

            --Was that really—

            The train picks up speed, the air conditioner comes back to life, the woman puts her belt back in the bag and smiles at her kids all the way uptown.  Around us, parents tell children, residents tell visitors, strangers even tell strangers, it won’t be long, we’ll be there soon, I wouldn’t worry, it’s not long from here.

 

 

 

About the Author

Jonathan Segol used to get his students to write "eyewitness accounts" of their neighborhoods and their subway commutes.  One year his students engaged in homework jujitsu and got him to write the same assignment he gave to them.  The result, "Flavor," is just something he saw that year.  Currently he is working on a novel set in Coney Island, demanding further research of subways, boardwalks-- and extra-heavy research of pierogis and Italian ices.

 

 

“Flavor on the 5” © 2008 by Jonathan Segol

 

*All rights reserved by the author – no work may be reprinted without the express consent of its author.

 

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