The glitchy subway sign flashed
C – EUCLID: 12 mins
I sat on the empty benches–mercifully empty for once in my fucking life, no sour-faced hoop-earringed youths or unhoused people in desperate need of a flat surface without punitive dividers or women who look like the ghost of Phoebe Snow–and opened the bag of chips and canned coffee I drunkenly purchased at the corner. I promised myself to only eat a handful of chips, but the ridges were so salty, so savory, so comforting after walking from the bar in the wind. Soon half the bag was gone and the condensation from the can of triple shot made all of the dehydrated onion and powdered cheddar stick to my fingers.
I looked left and right: still nobody at the station besides the resigned MTA clerk. My yellowed fingers crept towards my mouth, ready to indulge in the sweetest snacking taboo.
Fifty feet away, a voice bellowed into the tunnel:
“Of all the people I thought would never stoop to such degeneracy, I must admit you were at the top of my list.”
I peered to my right. Her castmates remained frozen with rictus smiles as she bent forward from the subway tile, the poster’s dimensions stretched so far that individual pixels were visible even in the gnarly underground fluorescents, even with my bleary three-drink eyes.
Her arm stretched a dozen yards to slap my grimy hand away from my face.
“I thought you had that brain disease. The one only stupid people get.”
I rubbed my fingers on a stray sock in my tote bag before applying hand sanitizer. “It’s called obsessive compulsive disorder, and I am working on not living in chronic fear of dying from germs. That’s what OCD specialists recommend.”
“I don’t care if you have OCD, ADD, MTV, or PPV: you live in New York City, girlfriend. You may as well be licking a sidewalk dog turd.” From the poster, a studio audience whooped and clapped, their laughter souring into methane gas as it crossed realms.
One of her costars yelled from the ether. “That’s assuming those turds came from a dog!” More laughter; more gas.
She stroked my face. The pixels sliced into my cheeks, leaving shards of green and cyan in my skin. “Look, we all know God didn’t give you any mental talents, or any talent really, but you still have to take care of yourself.” Schmaltzy music began to fill the concrete tube. “And if you’re going to stoop to a potato chip dinner after having the booze tolerance of a middle-schooler, then at least have the dignity to shake the remaining crumbs and dust directly from the bag into your mouth instead of licking your fingers like a feral hound. Can you do that, champ?”
I nodded, tears running across my pixel-pocked face. The audience let out a collective awww, which melted into a piss stain on the platform.
I looked up again at the arrival display:
C – EUCLID: 1 mins
I stood for the train. As I turned to throw away my dinner, I felt a tremendous shove. My knees fell out of joint as I toppled onto the tracks.
The light from the tunnel grew bigger and brighter. A million more pixels flew into the air as she retreated into the poster, laughing the whole time. “Like I said: God didn’t give you any sense at all.” Laughter and methane clouded the air as the light grew so so b–
Keegan Shepherd 