“Max From Minnesota”

One day I’ll just walk to work– was the collective thought of those packed onto (or into) the L-train. It was an unusually bad morning for the Brooklyn line and riders had little room to do anything, but think. The doors had not yet closed on the Bedford Ave. stop, but it was clear from the wall of people blocking the train’s entrance that no one else was getting on. Those few who had made the attempt, but were forced to recoil in defeat, now stood back humiliated and embarrassed. Those who hadn’t even bothered trying, now had something akin to a moral high-ground and looked at the– previously mentioned– unlucky ones with scorn and irony.

When Max arrived in the station the train had just pulled in. Despite the pessimism felt by all towards the situation, he made his way through the station crowd (itself a formidable opponent) and politely, but forcefully, reached the train’s front-most entrance. He saw the uninviting ocean of people contained within the long narrow tube of a train.

His continued presence in “the greatest city in the world” relied heavily on his first day of work going well. But he knew he wouldn’t fit into the train. A mouse
wouldn’t
fit. A
breath wouldn’t fit.A mouse wouldn’t fit. A breath wouldn’t fit.

He cleared his dry morning throat and spoke: “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen…”

It was remarkable the power one single voice had in the age of terrorism. The train and station grew quiet and nervous. They looked at the young man waiting to see him lift up a bomb or pull out a gun. He continued:

“I really have to get to work this morning and, I know the train is very crowded, but I was wondering if maybe you could just make a little more room so I could get on. I’d really appreciate it so much.”

The look of fear which had come over the riders after he first spoke now turned to one of guilt. The people unlucky enough to be in eyesight of Max began to shift and turn, moving in little inches towards the back. A tiny pocket opened up right in front of the young man which allowed him to board the train; he did so with a thankful smile. A moment later and the doors closed. The train pulled away and made off towards Manhattan.

A new thought now filled the minds of all the riders: Nicely done kid, Nicely done. But being New York, it was followed–quite quickly–by another: Try that shit again tomorrow and you can go right back where you fucking came from.

Authors Note: I was orginially going to call this “Max the Marketer From Minnesota”.