Subway Terror

Now and again my ears pop when the L passes through the tunnel below the river. Only then am I reminded of where I am: underneath the filthy black waters of the East River. I've counted in seconds the time it takes for the train to travel between 1st and Bedford Aves. Two hundred and 13 seconds: three minutes and 33 seconds. I may be off by some seconds, but I like that number so I stick with it.

I've counted this out for a reason. When the blast goes off on the L with a force that tears a hole in the ceiling of the tunnel, I will know exactly where I am. When the smoke fills the car and water begins to rush in, in the dark and confusion, I will know which direction would put me closest to land. I know, though, that in that moment a million life-changing decisions will be made: to try to help others, to fend for myself, to run from the water or take my chances in it. I see myself on my belly clawing across the tops of subway cars toward the light. Or submerged in the tunnel, searching for the fracture through which the water pours, finding it and escaping toward the surface. I see myself pop up like a buoy as a trash barge drifts by. I'd know then how close I am to home.

There's also the fear in the plaza underneath Port Authority. Crowds stream in both directions, out of the station and toward the subway. Some days the man who dances salsa with a puppet fixed to his patent-leather shoes is setting up his sound system, other days the Peruvian musicians tune their instruments. Plainclothes cops watch for people cheating the fare through the service gate. Preachers like this place as well. Everyone is moving fast. Even the men who work in the newsstands; you are served in order of how quickly you produce your money, not when you stepped to the counter. I look at the crowd around me. They're all strangers, but I know them. In the middle of the week, when we all move automatically through the day, the crowd can be six people deep on each side of me. Even with the constant movement, there remains a fixed crowd, moving in a million directions.

This time would be as good as any. I never picture myself next to the bomber. I always imagine myself close to the blast, but safe enough to survive. The heat, the disorder, fragments clattering against the walls, floor, ceiling. I see myself in that moment passing a column or a person who shields me from the blast and the shrapnel. I would like to think I would stand up and help those who were hurt. I like to think I can tolerate the sight of blood. That I'd tear my belt off for a tourniquet. Apply pressure to wounds.

Sometimes I see myself running east toward the river, clouds stretching into pink smoke, the Williamsburg Bridge my guide. I'll adopt different routes?take the train over the bridge, imagine new escapes, stand far from crowds. Even in my defined paths, the places I have to be and the times I have to be there, there are dozens of variations. Distant memories of childhood Cold War dreams. Then I remember, with humility, that sudden violence and death can't be outwitted or anticipated. If it could, what kind of survivors would any of us be? I can't answer that. All I can say is that I don't want to die.