The Bizarre Happenings. Number one.

The Bizarre Happenings. Number one.

         It is the summer of 1973, mid July; I was working a twelve-hour shift, ten AM to ten PM.  My normal schedule was ten to six and I was just finishing a six to ten stint of OT.  At the end of my shift I changed into my street cloths and grabbing a coffee from the cafeteria, sat for a while then I left that beautifully air-conditioned central office. 

         The humidity and heat engulfed my body as I went through the front door, hitting me like a heated feather blanket.  I stood there for a second, the cool A.C. pouring over my back as the door closed behind me, the heat engulfing my body as the last wisp of cool air was snipped off.  The street was dark and quiet. 

         This is the heart of the New York City financial district.  During the day the din is unbearable, the crowds of people and traffic, now at ten thirty the street was dark and only a few cars were left parked at the curb.  The Bowling Green station is only two block west of my location, it was so quiet on that block I could hear the echo of my heals as they hit the concrete sidewalk.

         I didn’t look forward to that subway platform; it was rated as the hottest subway station in New York City.  The TA had just finished refurbishing it, someone who must have been sadistic selected glazed red brick to decorate the walls; so apropos, hottest station, red brick; sort of like decorating Hell in red.  They had moved the entrance to the station from the middle of the park to a cobble stone plaza in front of the Old US Customs House at the foot of Broadway.  I crossed Broadway and approached the stairs.  The one redeeming fact is the subway cars are now air-conditioned. 

         As I descend the stairs the rush of super heated air rushes up past me, I can hear and feel the rumble of steel wheels on steel track,  ‘Shit I’ll miss it!’  At the bottom of the stairs I can see the gleaming stainless steel cars just stopping on the other side of the barriers.  I have my Metro card in hand and run, I clear the turnstiles and feel for sure the doors will close in my face, but they don’t.  Sweat is pouring off my body and saturating my shirt and pants as the icy cold of the car surrounds me; fire and ice.  I take a seat at the head of the car in a corner seat facing the open door.  The difference in air temperatures and humidity’s almost cause mist to form at the doorway, the metal door jam on the car is becoming damp as the invisible mist settles.  The sweat is evaporating and giving me chills.

         After a moment, I see that someone must have been sick on the floor next to me, the residue leaving a bad aroma.  I get up and move down to the middle of the car, two more people enter and sit at the other end of the car.  I begin to wonder how long the AC will last in its battle with the heat of that station.  We sit and wait for five minutes, then the muted chime sounds and the doors close, we are on our way. 

         Every station is hot, Wall Street, Fulton and then Brooklyn Bridge.  When the train stopped and the doors opened there stood a gorgeous, well-proportioned young Spanish girl with reddish blond hair.  High heals, hot pants and a piece of satin material wrapped around her top, the clear outline of her nipples visible through the thin material that was tied in a gigantic bow at her back.  She stood there teetering on those beautiful long legs; the pupils of her eyes were dilated to two giant black pools, she was obviously under the chemical influence of something and probably not knowing where she was. 

         She looked into the car at me and then the two at the other end of the car; just as she took a step into the car the chime sounded again and the doors began to close.  The conductor must have seen her and quickly opened the doors to allow her in.  She attempted again and on unsteady legs managed to make it into the car, the doors closed behind her. 

         She did not sit down, just leaned against the door.  She held a small clutch bag and waved her hands about to keep her balance.  The train became an express for the next number of stops, rushing through the tunnel at breakneck speed the car rocking violently, I expected her to be on the floor or in my lap at any minute, but she did this little balancing dance and remained standing. 

         At the 14th street station we stopped and the doors opened again, she turned around and looked out of the open door.  She took one step across the wide gap between the car and the platform.  My heart was in my throat, I expected her to fall into that gap, but she managed to plant her heels right at the edge of the platform, still swaying a little, her back to the doorway.  That great big bow in the middle of her back was being blown about by the station ventilation fans, the two ends of the flimsy material fluttering around in the breeze like butterflies in the doorway, then the doors closed on one of the ends, clamping is fast. 

         As the train started to move she must have realized what was happening and put her hands up to her breasts as she was spun around, the swatch of material being pulled off of her as the train departed the station. All three of us stood up and looked.  We watched that yellow swatch of material whip around in the slipstream as the train rushed up to 42nd street.  Not one of us got a good look, but she was stunning and very vulnerable.  At the time there were no cell phones, and no one to call. 

         This is just the first of a number of bizarre incidents I witnessed while working at jobs in the Big Apple.