Ink Well Prompt
Prompt word: Midnight
The three of us sat in the dimly lit bar on a Tuesday night. Sarah sat back in the wooden bench laughing, while Tony and I sat in adjacent chairs. Tony had his elbow on the table, using it as a crutch for his head as he looked at me with amused, reminiscent eyes. As we enjoyed the residual laughter of a previous recollection of something that happened years ago, I pulled my phone out to look at the time.
“Eleven-fifty? Oh darn, we’ve been here a long time. I’ve got to get up early tomorrow,” I said.
“How’s work going? Bet it's a little slower with tax season all done with.” said Tony.
“Yea, for sure,” I said. “Jim wants me to come up with an idea for this --” I started to tell him about a work assignment that had me racking my brain.
“What? It’s eleven-fifty? Oh, Jenna, you’d better hurry. The one train shuts down at Midnight tonight,” Sarah said.
“What?” I looked at Sarah, then Tony, then back at Sarah with wide eyes.
“Yea. For construction. You take the red line, right?” said Sarah.
“Yea,” I said. My stomach dropped. I began to fumble through my wallet for some cash to leave on the table.
“Just go,” Tony said, shaking his head and making a lenient downward gesture with his hand.
“Yea, we’ve got it. Don’t worry about it,” said Sarah. “Go make sure you catch that last train.”
I dashed out of the bar and made a left to the corner of the sidewalk. As I stood and waited for the street-crossing light to change, I began to think about the work task I’d been agonizing over for the last couple of weeks; the one I’d started to tell Tony about. I had an accountant position, but had been assigned a marketing task. I heard Jim, my boss’s, voice in my head: Something creative. Something catchy that sets us apart. I looked around at the people and the buildings for even the tiniest shred of inspiration. Nothing. My mind was blank. I’d been trying for weeks. This certainly wasn't my specialty, and I was confused as to why my boss assigned me a marketing task.
The pedestrian sign lit up, so I stepped down into the street staring ahead at the subway entrance. While crossing, I came across a fresh wad of gum on the ground, still covered in saliva. I looked down just in time as I flinched away, while the front of my sandal caught the pavement. My foot pulled up on the sandal thong, yanking it out of the sole.
I wobbled across the street with the sandal dangling on my foot. I cursed once I reached the sidewalk and realized I couldn’t get the sandal thong back into the sole.
“Screw it,” said the drunken me, who was also short on time. I took off the sandal and walked awkwardly down the subway stairs into the muggy underground. My sweaty foot picked up dirt and gunk that had accumulated from millions of people walking through over the years. I ransacked my wallet for my subway pass and reprimanded myself for not having it ready in my hand before I reached the turnstile.
That’s when I heard the piercing sound of the subway coming around a curve. Then, the repetitive clank filled up the station as the train aligned its long trail of cars to the yellow edge of the platform.
My first swipe was weak, and the turnstile screen let me know that by telling me to Please Swipe Again. I gave it a more forceful swipe as I went to push myself through the turnstile. It refused to pivot, as it told me to swipe again. I began to curse as I heard the train pulling up to the platform. Another swipe; too weak. Please swipe again glared on the tiny screen. I’m screaming on the inside, and the heat throughout the stuffy subway station added to my distress. Finally, on the fourth try, I glided through the turnstile. I dashed down the second flight of stairs to the platform and as my feet hit the ground I hear the ding-dong sound of closing doors. I managed to get my body about halfway through the first set of doors I saw. After a battle with those tenacious doors, I managed to pry myself into the air-conditioned subway. I looked around to see if there was a crowd of people whose time I’d wasted by holding the doors open. Luckily, there were only two other people on the car, so I wasn’t completely ashamed.
I sat down on the light blue plastic bench, against the bars near the door. I breathed a sigh of relief after my tumultuous walk through the station. I had caught the last train, and could finally relax.
I heard a screech as the train shifted onto a middle track. Suddenly, we were gliding through a middle lane, sailing smoothly past the next subway station that had construction equipment along the platform. I caught a glimpse of the street name on the tiled wall: 28th Street. I sat forward with my mouth open, then mouthed the words Oh, shoot to myself. I was headed in the wrong direction. I must have been in denial, because I still looked over at the light-up map near the ceiling to verify this. I had rushed onto the train without even checking to see if it was north-bound or south-bound. I was too busy racing down the stairs and fighting the doors to hear the train announcement. I sat there with my jaw clenched, shaking my head in despair. The train continued to drift through the middle track in a carefree manner, as though to mock me for messing with its doors. At this velocity, it wasn’t stopping any time soon.
I heard it this time. “This is a New Lots Avenue one train. The next stop is Franklin Avenue,” said an automated woman’s voice. Oh God, I thought. It certainly wasn’t stopping any time soon. I sat back in the seat and took a deep breath, finally accepting my circumstance.
I looked over toward the front of the car, at the man sitting diagonal to me. He sat back, slouched, with headphones playing loudly. He sat with his head back, but his eyes still open; not really looking at anything. He seemed completely unphased by the train’s unruliness. He sat with his arms comfortably crossed, not caring that his t-shirt bunched up and exposed his lower stomach. He wore no belt with his jeans, so they slid down enough to expose his boxers. I realized the plaid on the boxers was muted and then I noticed seams on the outside. It occurred to me that his boxers were inside-out. I was suddenly so curious about this man. Where was he headed? Was he aware his music was playing loudly? Had he gone his whole day without noticing his boxers were inside-out? I felt a pang of envy toward his carefree demeanor. I started to analyze how neurotic and uptight I’d become over the years. Was it my accounting job? I mean, God forbid I screw up on the numbers for someone’s taxes. In the nine years I’d been working for Jim, I’d only messed up the numbers once. Then, I realized, that’s what sets us apart. Suddenly the idea flowed so freely into my mind: Some things are okay to get backwards. Others, not so much. Let us help you with your taxes. I began to brainstorm all of the humorous scenarios I could apply to this campaign as I progressed further in the wrong direction.