Because I can’t imagine my life ever feeling normal again without him.
Surely he feels the same way.
Surely he’s ready to make that final commitment, wouldn’t ya think?
The intercom interrupts my speculation, crackling loudly with a seemingly urgent announcement.
The only words I think I can make out clearly are “grapefruit,” “Ricky Schroeder” and “explosive.”
Or maybe I’m hearing them wrong.
“What did they say?” I ask Jack.
“Who knows?” he replies amid the disgruntled grumbling from similarly stumped commuters.
Okay, I might not have heard grapefruit or Ricky Schroeder, but I’m pretty sure I heard the word explosive.
I try not to think about terrorist attacks and suicide bombers.
Yeah, you know how that goes. Terrorist attacks and suicide bombers are now all I can think about.
In a matter of moments, I am convinced that this is no ordinary malfunction, but an Al Qaeda plot.
We’re all going to die, right here, right now. And when we do, we won’t even be able to slump to the ground because we’re wedged against each other like hundreds of cocktail toothpicks in a full plastic container.
I try to shift my weight, but succeed only slightly.
Great. Now I’m going to die standing up with what I hope is somebody’s umbrella poking into my leg. As opposed to a penis or a gun.
I try to shift my weight back in the opposite direction but that space has been filled. I can’t move.
To add to the drama, from this spot, even in this dim light, I have a clear view of yet another Married People Live Longer ad.
Dammit!
I know it’s not as if all the married people on board the train will be sheltered from harm in a golden beam from heaven while the rest of us losers die a terrible death, but…
Well, that stupid tag line isn’t helping matters. Not at all.
Married People Live Longer.
It might as well have said: Single People Die Young.
My chest is getting tight and my forehead is breaking out into a cold sweat. This definitely feels like a panic attack.
Mental note: place emergency call to Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum ASAP.
I’m trapped. Oh, God, I can’t even breathe. There’s no air in here.
Yes there is. Stop that. There’s plenty of air.
I inhale.
Exhale.
See? Plenty of stale, stinky air to go around.
“Come on!” shouts an angry voice in the dark.
“This is bullshit!” somebody else announces.
Another passenger throws in a colorful expletive for good measure.
Then a woman speaks up. “That’s not helping.”
“Shaddup!”
In no time, a train full of civilized commuters has transformed into a vocal, angry mob. If there were more room, fistfights would be breaking out.
“I can’t breathe,” I tell Jack.
“Yes, you can,” he says calmly.
“No, I can’t.”
Verging on hysteria, I fantasize about shoving people aside and breaking a window.
Two things stop me. The first is that it’s too crowded to get the leverage to shove anyone. The other is that I don’t have a window-breaking weapon in my purse.
I guess I can always snatch the umbrella that’s still pressed up against my leg. If it’s an umbrella.
If it’s not…
Well, you definitely don’t want to grab a stranger’s penis in a situation like this.
Then again, if it turns out to be a gun and not a penis, I can always shoot my way out.
Then again, if it’s a gun, its owner might shoot me.
The thing is, if it’s a gun, there’s a distinct possibility that any second now, he might go berserk and start shooting. Things like that happen all the time.
Oh, God. I really can’t breathe.
“Jack,” I say in a shrill whisper, “I’m scared.”
“Why? It’s fine. We’re fine.”
See, the thing is, that’s easy for him to say. He doesn’t know about the freak with the gun.