The traffic lights in Times Square were dark. Three police officers stood in the middle of 42nd Street and 8th Avenue making what looked like a half-assed attempt at directing traffic. But perhaps they’d simply given in to the frivolity of the task as box trucks, cars, SUVs, taxis, Amazon delivery cart drivers, bicyclists, and pedestrians gingerly inched toward the middle of the street, recognizing and processing the situation in real time. Practiced New Yorkers (like me, of course) met the moment with a disinterested urgency; the tourists let their shock and awe get swallowed up in the chaos.
It was around 10pm on a Spring-like Friday night. I hugged my friend goodbye, promising to make plans again in April or May at the latest. We’d come from seeing Adam Lambert in Cabaret at The Kit Kat Club on Broadway where he was in the final weeks of his run. (10/10 would recommend. Adam and the entire cast gave a magical performance of the extremely poignant story — on a revolving stage with a 360-degree crowd, no less.) She was headed into Port Authority on her way back to New Jersey. I was on my way to the 2 train back to Brooklyn. Grateful not to be stuck in a vehicle, I tucked down into the closest subway entrance escaping the throngs of other humans immersed in their own versions of sensory overload. I rarely go to Midtown anymore, and I’d surpassed my daily capacity for people.
To my great satisfaction, the train I wanted was waiting in the station. Clutching my Playbill, I stepped on and moved to the end of the car still buzzing from the evening. As I started to contemplate the impact of no traffic lights on a Friday night in one of the busiest places in the world, I was engulfed in the not-particularly-unwelcome scent of pineapple soda (better than hot piss, you know?). The culprit was in view: a clear glass bottle of bright yellow liquid (I actually did see piss-in-a-bottle on the subway recently and this wasn’t that). The bottle stood standing one-quarter full sans cap near the pole in the center of the car. A sticky residue lay strewn about in all directions. More people piled in. The doors closed. The train begrudgingly sputtered into gear. The pineapple soda stood steadfast.
I tried to forget about it. I tried to be nonchalant. It’s just a soda. I thought about the show and what a wonderful night I’d had with my friend. I tried to sink into my 45-minute ride home and let it all just wash over me. But I stood too close — my sparkly sneakers were in the flood zone. There’s no way that thing isn’t tipping by Brooklyn. Between the jerky dance of the subway cars and the sheer mass of people coming in and out, it will fall. I had to be ready. I couldn’t help it. My head on a swivel, I kept one eye on the soda. Be cool. Don’t be so uptight. It’s only pineapple soda. It probably wouldn’t stain. The scent faded, merging with the cocktail of human-stuffed train car.
It was as if all the passengers had taken a pact. Do not disrupt the soda. Do not let it fall. And whatever you do — don’t touch it. Who knows what kind of germs are on that thing. (They thought as they gripped the subway bars with their bare hands.) I watched each rider take a passing glance down, acknowledging the open soda…and the pact. Slowing into the next stop, the train’s squeaky old wheels giving it their best shot, I thought — this is it. Timber time. I looked left then right to plan my escape route noting two neighbors getting off. The train came to a stop…and the soda held its ground. But this is 34th street, with so many people surely someone will knock it. I noticed a roller bag emerging from the center of the car. At the last second, it swerved around the bottle. Another win for the soda.
I kept watch as we barrelled on. Now I was invested. I started indiscriminately predicting who would or wouldn’t be the one to take it down. Even the tourists protected it (luck was definitely involved a couple times). I mean, how often did someone step on my foot? A man and a woman, laughing, wheeled on with a stroller, the toddler kicking her legs out the front. This couldn’t last. It had become about more than just protecting my sneakers. I was rooting for the soda. What authority it had over its personal space. It commanded attention. No one dared plow through its boundaries. When life gets sticky, attract a different kind of attention. My mind wandered. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe this soda was sent here to teach me its ways. Soggy boundaries, be gone!
The liquid rider. In tune with the movements of the car. Undeterred by obstacles. It had a swagger to it. We crossed under the river to Brooklyn. The crowd thinned and we were out of the danger zone. Brooklyn wouldn’t fuck with the soda. Just a couple stops from home. I let myself get excited. Did I feel pride?
The underdog of the Brooklyn-bound 2 train prevails again.
My sparkly kicks and I stepped off the train, wishing it luck.