Blowing up the 6 Train

I

“Stand clear of the closing doors please.” The ominous train messaging system warned

riders of the closing doors as Aidan squeezed onto the crowded subway car. “Damn it” thought Aidan as he saw the amount of people packed into the car. Everyone wore heavy winter jackets and hats and gloves to protect their extremities from January’s cold bite. Aidan gripped a metal pole at the end of the car and found himself standing unusually close to a cute black woman. By Ottawa standards this was much too close, they were invading each other’s personal space. But New York City’s standards are completely different from Ottawa’s. The city still felt exotic to him and so did this young black woman and her facial features and skin tone. As the train came to a sudden stop Aidan bumped into a stocky Puerto Rican man and quickly apologized.

II

“He hated crowds” said Diana as she sipped on a glass of red wine. “I don’t know why he

took the train. He always took the express bus.” She set down her glass of wine and began to sob as Officer Hemmings scribbled in his notepad. He noticed a pile of wine bottles near her sink in the kitchen. He had been talking to her for half an hour and hadn’t written down a single substantial note. After all, there were no survivors, the assailant had been killed in the blast, and the case was basically closed. Captain Riley had sent a few first responders to visit the families of the lost ones to offer some form of consolation. Louie Hemmings was one of those responders, but Louie wasn’t ready for this. He faced the crying wife of a victim of a terrorist attack. He wanted to hug her and tell her “Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay.” He wanted to hold her and tell her “Don’t worry, he’s in a better place now.” He did neither.

He still had nightmares and often thought about the bloody scene. At first the radio reported an explosion on the six train attributed to a faulty conduit. But when Louie reached the scene he knew that it wasn’t a faulty conduit, the smell alone reminded him of his Army days. Louie decided to maintain his professionalism. He patted Diana on her left shoulder and said “If you need anything, and I mean anything at all, you call me.” When Louie exited the apartment he turned off the hallway light and closed the door as Diana had instructed. After descending the staircase he reached the building’s mailboxes and saw a lone envelope taped to one of the boxes. Louie fought the urge to look at the envelope in case it was for Diana. He thought “Don’t look. It doesn’t concern you and it’s none of your business.” He looked. The envelope was addressed to: Diana Rosenthal

Apartment 4G. One word marked the return address: MANAGEMENT.

Louie exited the building and walked down 125th Street as he lit his cigarette. All the while thinking about Diana sobbing, the piled bottles of red wine, her dead husband, and that damn letter taped to her mailbox. He inhaled more of the tobacco and thought about the large capitalized letters spelling out MANAGEMENT. He inhaled once again and thought “fuck it.” He walked back to Diana’s building, grabbed the letter and opened it. Diana had one month to vacate her apartment.

III

“Marcos, Marcos” called a strong voice in the dark. “Levantate, vamos para el mercado.”

Marcos knew his father’s voice well, even at 4am in the pitch black. He also knew that it was time to accompany his father to the marketplace in Managua. There he would assist his father in setting up their family’s stall and preparing the chickens they sold. First, he would grab a chicken by its legs and swiftly hit it across the head with a rubber mallet. Once the chicken stopped flailing Marcos would pluck every single feather off the bird and wash it. Next, he would skin the chicken, rinse it once again and cut it up into small pieces. His father taught him how to do this. “Asi es como se hace hijo, dale en la cabeza como si fuera un gringo haha!” his father gleefully explained as he clubbed a chicken. Marcos never knew why his father resented Americans so much and he often wondered if his father had ever even met an American. Nonetheless, he learned how to kill chickens the way you’d kill “gringos”, the way his father taught him.

A month later the Contra “Freedom Fighters” received the backing of President Reagan and the United States to fight the Sandinista government. Two months later Marcos’ small town was pillaged by Contra forces, his mother and sister were raped, and his father’s refusal to denounce the Sandinistas led to the removal of his fingers and eventual execution. Marcos was severely beat and left to take care of his family at the age of fifteen. Months later, while recovering in the Maria Auxiliadora Catholic Hospital, he often read and talked with the other young boys in the intensive care wing. When the nuns rolled in a new television set donated by the Sandinistas the boys celebrated and “oohed” and “ahhed”. But when they turned on the television set he learned about something he’d never forget. He learned about Reagan and Oliver North and Iran-Contra. And he saw the rebels on the TV screen and he thought about his family. And through a bandage covering most of his face he strained himself to see an American family boarding a train heading towards Rockefeller Center. The evening news’ final story. Months later he’d club the chickens with intense tenacity and recall the images on the TV screen.

IV

Aidan’s claustrophobia kicked in as he tried to compose himself. “Just watch it bro.” said

the Puerto Rican. “Sorry, sorry man” replied Aidan as he glanced back at the black woman. He noticed she was smiling at him. He smiled back. “It’s innocent” he thought “I’m not cheating on Diana.” He met Diana in college in Ottawa and they married after dating for two years. After graduation Diana received a position with SafeBank and they relocated to Manhattan. She worked and paid the bills while he worked on his writing. She enabled him “keep writing baby, I know you’re going to get published.” He took advantage of her “babe I need this computer for my work, make it my Christmas gift.” After the recession hit she lost her job and they both found themselves sitting at his computer looking for work. Aidan looked away from the black woman and stared at a Knicks advertisement that read “BOOM! Here come the Knicks!” A player was dunking the ball.

Aidan couldn’t wait to tell Diana about the good news. After a two month job search he had finally landed a position teaching English at a high school in the Bronx. He decided to use the rest of his savings to pay the rent he owed. They were two months behind on payments so he decided to visit the building’s management office and pay in person. The six train was the quickest way for him to reach the office and then hop back on and head home. Under his arm he held a bottle of merlot, Diana’s favorite. As the train approached Whitlock Avenue, Aidan saw a dishevelled looking man stand up from his seat and curiously dig into his inner coat pocket. Aidan and the man made eye contact and stared at each other for a split second. Suddenly the man yelled out “Al diablo con los gringos!” The man pulled a grenade out of his pocket, pulled the pin, and hurled it towards Aidan’s direction. Aidan saw the Puerto Rican man open his mouth, he saw the black woman’s wide-eyed terror, and he saw the weapon ricochet off the car ceiling towards him. Before everything went black the train spoke, “Stand clear of the closing doors please.” The grenade exploded and the shrapnel lodged into the stocky Puerto Rican man, the cute black woman and Aidan.

V

“Why the fuck does Riley want me to do this?” thought Louie. He was on his way to

“console” the wife of a dead man. He wondered about the turn of events as he drove down 125th Street. It was an ordinary day, just like today, when the radio relayed the news of the explosion. “All available units to Whitlock Avenue train station. Reports of an explosion and shots possibly fired.” He recalled the eerie train car on the platform and the dead bodies on the car floor. Those who were seated were slumping over each other. Louie glanced at his copy of the Post lying on the passenger seat. The paper identified the killer as “Marcos Cordero of Nicaragua, an illegal alien who bore anti-American sentiments and hailed from a communist country.” “Bastard” thought Louie. He parked the cruiser outside a small apartment building and looked at his cell phone “Alright, Diana Rosenthal, 4G.”