Fate's Huge Hand

As he looked at the world for the last time, Dr. Richard Kimble—once upon a time—pondered his fate. Considering his circumstances, it’s not surprising that he saw only darkness. But the “huge hand” of fate—as it is wont to do—had something else in mind. The train carrying Kimble to death row violently derailed and the wrongfully convicted man miraculously escaped into the night. Thereafter on the run, he encountered the very best and the very worst of humanity for four television seasons.

Not quite as dramatic as The Fugitive premise, I recently looked at the world—through the sullied window of a subway car—and saw Mr. Ootwear. I also spied in the distance, my old grammar school, St. John’s. While the Archdiocese of New York still owns the property, the building is currently leased to the New York City public school system. With the church’s ever-diminishing flock, the extra revenue no doubt helps pay some bills and, of course, the countless lawsuits against misbehaving priests past and present.

Prior to laying eyes on that formerly hallowed ground from the Number 1 train, I found myself riding with a subway conductor whom I affectionately call “Choo Choo Charlie.” And it’s not because he uses Good & Plenty candy to make his train run. No, it’s because he deviates from the standard, workmanlike station calls and announcements with a uniquely personal style all his own. One of his recurring lines is to make room in the subway cars so “that baby carriage can ride the Choo Choo with us.” It certainly breaks up the monotony of a trip.

When I boarded the Bronx-bound train at 23rd Street, I promptly heard the dulcet tones of the aforementioned Choo Choo Charlie. Regrettably, a couple of stops later—at Penn Station—a crazed lunatic materialized. One of the downsides in riding in the last car on the uptown trip is its penchant for attracting undesirables. Inaudibly raving at first, this fellow quickly kicked it up a notch. Flitting all the while, he was quite vulgar and downright threatening. The smattering of passengers in the car were well aware of the raving maniac in their midst but were pretending—not very convincingly in my opinion—to be blissfully unaware.

When the man lit up a cigarette, it dawned on me that—yes—I’ve been in his company before. It was part of his intimidating shtick, I sensed, daring anyone in earshot to say something. From my vantage point, the menacing mumblings alone were reason enough to make like a tree and leave, but the wafting cigarette smoke in a hermetically sealed subway car in an underground tunnel was the clincher.

It was not in my plan to part from Choo Choo Charlie so soon, but fate moved its huge hand one more time. Eight minutes later, I found myself on another train where I encountered a decidedly different sort of madman. I actually knew this fellow’s name, Matt, and face from past poetry readings—twenty-five years ago—in the old neighborhood. He was super-intelligent then and I have little doubt that he is still Mensa grade. But Matt was also a bona fide screwball then and—take my word for it—is still one all these years later. That’s usually how it works.

Sporting his perpetual sneer, Matt sat directly across from me. His beady eyes combed his surroundings—for something to annoy him, I supposed, or an ear to engage in some uncomfortable conversation. He does that. Matt changed his seat a couple of times before exiting the car altogether. I don’t exactly know why. He was the only reason I could see for anyone moving into an adjoining car.

The lesson here is that one never knows what’s around the corner. A deranged eccentric forced me into the metaphorical arms of another. I didn’t fear the latter might physically harm me, which made riding in his company a more tolerable sideshow. I just wonder how old Matty would have reacted to his gibbering predecessor with the smokes. He probably would have just moved to the next car and continued on his unmerry way. That’s fate for you.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)