Reynold had the turnstile leap down like an Olympic gymnast; on a good day, even cops felt like applauding. Today, Karen would only give him a 9.1 on a 10 point scale. The cops waiting at the bottom of the stairs felt the same way. They unfroze and darted after him.
Karen smiled at the station attendant, who watched the chase with dull eyes. The station attendant was fat and pink and not someone that would be cast for reality television. Karen waved. Karen limboed under the turnstile, still waving. The station attendant yelled. He pressed the speaker button once he’d finished swearing.
Reynold had slipped his way into a crowded car. The cops were held back by a wall of sour-faced commuters, daring them to push. Karen fit underneath the canopy of a fat man’s belly. The doors slid shut, and Karen waved at the flustered, frustrated cops through the window. One of them wrestled his grimace into a G-rated smile.
Reynold caught Karen’s hand before a homeless man could rub his exposed penis against her shoulder. They huddled together like a Charles Dickens novel, siblings against the world, except instead of wearing top hats and riding boots the people around them were wearing coats stitched into down-filled rectangles and duck boots, and instead of having dignity, the homeless man was masturbating.
Around Grand Central the crowd loosened. It was too early for tourists. Karen sat in the seat reserved for handicapped people. She wanted someone with crutches to ask her to move, so she could tell them not all handicaps are visible.
With Karen settled, Reynold started his sermon, pacing up and down the subway pews. The grating timbre of his voice worked with steel and plastic the way a contralto’s voice worked with the domed ceiling of an opera house. Karen’s favorite part was when he talked about the whore of Babylon. She could picture the whore’s ruby lips and cashmere jacket, holding her iPad while Karen panhandled at the feet of the seven-headed beast.
Then a man with a fed-up frown stood and punched Reynold. He did it a few more times until blood came out of Reynold’s face. Nobody moved. Relieved expressions unfolded across the car like tulips blooming in the sun.
When everyone moved to the next car, Karen sat next to her brother, who was lying face down. The only thing that moved was his blood. Someone had stepped in his blood with their boot. Burberry was stamped seven times with decreasing vividness in the direction of the door.
As the train crossed into the Bronx, a pair of cops walked on. They were, unrealistically, the same cops that gave chase in Brooklyn. The one that had smiled wasn’t smiling any longer.
(Click through for more photography by Chetan Patel.)
