The following piece was written in May 1997 as part of my former essay series "The Writings of Daedalus," which was in turn an outgrowth of my work for Alexis Massie's now-defunct Web site Pandora's Box of Tricks.
Sometimes you have a day that's just entirely too symbolic.
Mine came one morning late this past winter, not long after I'd started my new job in the financial district of Manhattan. I don't need to show up at work until ten, so I usually catch the D train from Brooklyn at around nine-thirty, then transfer to the N at DeKalb Avenue.
The trains are still somewhat crowded at that time of the morning, but nothing like the crush you'd see if you rode an hour earlier. This particular morning, however, as I crossed the platform at DeKalb and boarded the N, I was pleased to spy a large empty zone in the train car. Ah, plenty of room to sit down and stretch my legs without worrying about shoehorning myself into the narrow space between two wide-bodied fellow commuters.
It didn't occur to me to question the big empty space—only to enjoy it.
Blissfully I took my seat, extending my legs into the center aisle as far as they would go and withdrawing a paperback book from my shoulder bag, all the while savoring the blessed lack of human encroachment on my personal space.
It was only then, over the top edge of my book, that I noticed what was sitting directly across the train from me—a big steaming pile of human feces, deposited as neatly and unashamedly in the shallow concavity of the plastic orange seat as if the comfortable transportation of raw filth were the sole purpose for which the public transit system of New York City had been designed.
We stared at each other for a timeless moment, the pile of shit and I.
It won. As unobtrusively as I could, but acutely conscious of the averted eyes of my fellow travelers (some of whom, no doubt, had originally taken the very seat I was in the process of vacating), I moved a few yards farther down the car and pretended to be absorbed in my book.
But I couldn't help it. My eyes kept returning to the brazen fecal display, fascinated and repulsed.
It was with great relief that I exited the train at the Whitehall stop in Manhattan and emerged into the relatively fresh air at street level. A cold sea wind blew in from the water, so I tucked my chin down into the collar of my jacket and hurried off down Beaver toward Broad Street and my office. An armored truck was parked by the Burger King Express at the corner of Beaver and New, right where I usually cross, and without thinking I stepped out into the street to get around it.
I looked up just in time to see a neatly stacked pile of at least two hundred silver ingots bearing down on me.
Well, I hustled my fanny straight over to the opposite curb, and the forklift carrying the pallet of silver ingots from the armored truck trundled on by without incident.
Somewhat shaken, I watched that king's ransom in silver recede up the narrow concrete-and-brick canyon of New Street, and I muttered to myself, "Only in New York."
Then I went to work and forgot about it all. Symbolism like that doesn't bear too much thought.