Sunday Subway Ride.

“Are you being perceptive or sarcastic?”

“Can’t I be both?”

This took place in September of 2008.

In the last two months of the summer of 2008, I had been on about 15-20 dates. Some were really a lot of fun. Some were absolutely dreadful. Whether it was friends trying to set me up or meeting some girl at a party or an online service – I was all about dating. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I sure as shit didn’t want a girlfriend. I just wanted to go on dates with different women.

I had been married up until about 18 months previous to a girl I had been with for a decade. Directly after our decision to split, I had back-to-back, ill-conceived relationships with two women who chewed me up and spat me back into the dating world a bitter and angry man. Several months later, after coming to terms with my mistreatment at the hands of those two ladies, I was ready to date again.

I needed to experience the company of a wider variety of women. I decided I could use more information to make an informed judgment on what I was really looking for because all I knew at that point was what I definitely didn’t want – anything resembling what I had already been exposed to. Thanks but no.

Due to my dedication to that mission, I never turned down an opportunity to go out on a date – not because I was desperate but because I wanted to see what was out there and, more importantly, have some fun. Because of my willingness to go out on just about any date, I had been out with a lot of interesting women in a lot of unique situations. One night I was in an empty arcade in Allentown, PA playing skee-ball with one girl. The next night I was driving around Atlantic City, NJ – with a different girl – taking pictures of random people standing on street corners. A couple of nights later I was in South Philly – with yet another girl – running from what we were certain sounded like gunshots. It was sometimes uncomfortable and often weird but I was having the time of my life.

The third weekend in September the Philadelphia Eagles were playing host to the Pittsburgh Steelers at 4:15pm. My friends Clint and Clara wanted to set me up with their friend Colleen. She was a year older than me and – from what Clara told me – had experienced a similar string of bad luck in the surreal nightmare that is dating in your thirties. We had originally planned to meet at The Pour House – a bar by my house – to watch football. Those plans changed when someone who worked with Clara and Colleen got everyone in their department tickets to the Eagles’ game. Clara called and asked if I wanted to meet them at McFadden’s – a bar near Lincoln Financial Field, home of the Eagles – for pre-game drinks instead. Since it was a late-afternoon game, I decided I would go. I had a dinner scheduled with Jen in Chinatown around 5pm. I’d hop on the subway, go meet them at McFadden’s and when they went into the game, I would get back on the subway and go to dinner with Jen.

Here is what happened.

I found myself in a subway car on the Broad Street Line down to Pattison Avenue – with about 900 screaming Eagles fans, each one of them more annoying than the next. Both Eagles (the majority) and Steelers (the minority) jerseys surrounded me in a sea of midnight green and black/gold. Guys with backpacks full of warm beer were chanting “E-A-G-L-E-S” while their girlfriends sipped on warm beer from their boyfriends’ backpacks, looked at each other and shared smiling looks that said, “Get a load of our crazy guys.” The Steelers fans smartly tried to remain unnoticed by sitting deep in their seats and avoiding eye-contact with anyone wearing the opposing jersey.

I was an Eagles’ supporter but I was not what one would consider a fanatic. I watched the games. I followed the team. My fellow passengers were on an entirely different level. Eagles’ fans are known nationwide as the most rabid football spectators in the country. As the subway car sped down subterranean tracks, I wondered what the reaction of the rest of the nation would be if they saw what was going on underneath Broad Street before every Eagles’ home game.

Walnut-Locust – one stop down, six to go.

A man – probably in his early thirties – boarded the car. He wore a dark black suit, a red shirt and black tie. His hair was slicked back messily, his skin chalky. I thought I looked out of place with my grey t-shirt and khakis, sporting my black leather man-bag, which I brought along because Jen was giving me some camouflage pants she had picked up for me during her recent trip to Florida. I was kind of glad that the chalky guy was there – I felt less conspicuous.

Me being who I am and the universe being what it is, the chalky guy sat next to me. Of course. It is well-documented that weirdoes love themselves some Josh. I am the freak magnet. Everywhere I go, it seems that there is some oddball lurking around the outer skirts of the crowd, just waiting for the opportunity to jump headfirst into some strangely-constructed conversation with me about something I am either uncomfortable – or have no interest in – discussing.

As soon as he sat down I got the feeling I might know more than I wanted to about the guy before I exited the subway car. I didn’t want to look over at him. Luckily I was able to view his reflection, through the five people standing in front of us, in the window directly across from the bench we shared.

He seemed to be looking around for something or someone, maybe like he was trying to get a feel for the crowd. My mind began to wander. I immediately decided that he was most likely a hit-man. His outfit. His appearance. His shifty nature. He was there to kill someone. I looked around at who his victim might be. I decided it could be anyone in the car. Even though I had only been with them for about two minutes, I already knew I wanted to kill most of the people in the crowd. What kind of gun did he have? It was probably something small because there was not a lot of room for concealment in his tight black suit. What would it matter what kind of gun it was anyway? I knew nothing about guns. When he pulled his “piece” (I’d heard that said in the movies), my mind would identify it as simply “some sort of gun.” I would be little help in that regard to the detectives investigating the imminent murder-for-hire, although I would be able to describe what he looked like and what he wore. Yeah. I would be able to give a kick-ass description of the man himself and the cops would probably say something to me like, “Wow. You got a great eye for detail, sir.”

As I daydreamed about impressed police officers patting me on the back for providing possibly the most efficient physical description in the history of law enforcement, the chalky guy reached into his jacket. I looked over at him and thought, “Holy shit. Am I right? Is he reaching for his tiny gun?” I was wrong. He wasn’t reaching for a gun. Instead, he pulled out a little leather book that looked a lot like the one I carried around with me in my back pocket. Maybe he was like me – an aspiring writer trying to capture his thoughts on the moronic mayhem in front of him.

Lombard-South. Two down, five to go. No one got on or off.

As the train began to move, I looked over at his little black book. There was a gold cross on the front of it. Underneath the cross read three words – “The Holy Bible.” Much more dangerous than a gun. He turned toward me. I at once wished he actually was a hit-man. I knew what was coming next. The chalky man opened his mouth to speak words that I already knew I didn’t want to hear.

“Hello, I am Robert. How are you?” I attempted to look preoccupied by looking into my man-bag for something that I imagined I needed. “Doing well. Yourself?” “Having a great day just like I do every Sunday. I didn’t catch your name…” I thought the baritone voice coming out of him seemed completely all wrong. “Yeah everyone loves football Sundays. I’m Joshua.” “Well, Joshua, I love it for a different reason – a far more important one.”

I continued to look very intently for the non-existent item in my bag. “Oh yeah?” “Do you know the reason I mean?” I looked down at his Bible. “I assume it has something to do with that.” “Are you being perceptive or sarcastic?” “Can’t I be both?” Robert shifted in his seat. “Seriously, have you completely organized your thoughts on the redeeming powers of Jesus Christ?” I looked toward the ceiling and sighed. “No, but it is on my list of long-term goals.”

Ellsworth-Federal. Three down, four to go. We were on the move again.

I had given up on the idea of pretending to look through my bag and decided that maybe staring intently on the ceiling would send the proper message. Robert was obviously not what you would call gifted at getting the hint.

“Did you go to service today?” “Service?” I knew what he meant. “Religious service.” “No.” “Can I ask you why?” I pretended to be engrossed in one of the posters on the car wall. “Well if you must know, I was out really late last night and didn’t get to bed until about 4am. By the time I woke up this morning, it was too late to attend services. Oh and also – I almost forgot – I don’t believe in God.” He looked stunned – like it was the first time he had ever heard someone say that. He held up his Bible. “Have you ever read this?” “Yes – quite the page-turner. Couldn’t put it down.” “Well…since you’ve read it, why don’t you have faith in the risen Christ?” “Guess I’m a challenging sell.”

Tasker-Morris. Four down, three to go. I couldn’t wait to get the fuck off the train.

“Sarcasm isn’t technically a sin but I think in your case maybe it should be. Are you always so sarcastic?” “I would say so.” “Well, I’m no idiot. I get sarcasm.” “It’s necessary to get sarcasm to survive in this city.” Robert laughed at that. “I suppose you are right, my friend.” His face got serious again. “I would like to counsel you about your lack of faith.”

Nothing was working. I tried appearing non-interested – didn’t work. I tried being blunt – didn’t work. I was simply trying to get from one place to the next while experiencing a hangover on Sunday morning. There was only one other option: a full-frontal assault.

“Listen, buddy, if you really want to know my thoughts on it I will tell you but I want you to listen to me and no interrupting. After I am done, I will let you say whatever you want for as long as we have on this train. Agreed?” “Agreed.” I turned my body around to face him. “I spent my whole life in Catholic school. I have read The Bible in its entirety. I have read the Gnostic Gospels. I have read other religious texts such as The Qur’an. I don’t buy any of it. I respect them as works of creative non-fiction and I leave it at that.”

Snyder. Five down, two to go. The train rumbled on.

“I have organized my thoughts – as you put it – on the whole religion thing and I believe it all to be a collective bunch of nonsense. I live my life how I live my life – for better or worse. Sometimes I am an asshole, but for the most part I am a good person. I care about the welfare of strangers. I don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone. I love my mother and father. I treat my family and friends with kindness the majority of the time. I am not the best person in the world – not by a long shot – but I am even further away from being the worst. And that is enough for me. I don’t need religion to tell me how to act or what to believe. I would prefer to determine these things for myself and not have them dictated to me. Does that make sense?”

Oregon. Last stop before Pattison. The doors closed.

Robert turned to me. “Yes, but…” “Hold on, I’m not done. I hope that after hearing all of that you appreciate where I am coming from. I am not rejecting the idea of God out of ignorance or anger. I am rejecting it because I have done the research and arrived at my own conclusions. I am not – even in the loosest definition of the word – a ‘believer.’ Nor will I ever be. Can you live with that?” “Yes, but I would love to have an exchange with you on this. I think I could show you that you may have missed some of the message.”

Pattison. The train stopped. I had arrived.

As the jersey-wearing assemblage’s yelling and screaming got exponentially louder, I stood up.

“Sorry, dude, but our time is up. You seem like a nice enough guy but you are – as they say – barking up the wrong tree. You got a better chance of converting these Eagles fans into Steelers fans before kickoff. No hard feelings, though, I understand you are doing what you believe in and I respect that – much more than I respect these clowns. Good luck with everything.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

I smiled at that. “I get that a lot. Nice talking with you, Robert.” “You too, Joshua.”

He stood up and we exited the car. We enjoyed a very awkward climb up the stairs followed by an even more awkward walk toward the door. Once we got out of the subway station I saw that we were both headed in the same direction. I stopped, pulled my phone out of my pocket and said, “Hello?” No one was calling me but I had to get away from Robert. I pretended to have a conversation outside the subway station for another 30 seconds until he was far enough ahead that I was reasonably sure we wouldn’t bump into each other again.

I started walking toward McFadden’s to meet Clint, Clara and – most importantly – Colleen.

After I got home from my dinner with Jen (my new camouflage pants were awesome, by the way), I thought back to my encounter with Robert. Had the circumstances been different – say a cross-country train ride – I would have probably enjoyed listening to him go on about his beliefs. I would get much enjoyment in debating him on his views. He would never change what I believe but it would have been interesting and an entertaining waste of time.

Still, I felt a little guilty that I was so terse with him. He didn’t really do anything wrong and – when push came to shove – he was, by my estimation, easily the most worthwhile individual I rode the subway with that day. I just didn’t have the time to get into such a messy, complex subject during a seven-stop subway ride to a football game surrounding by insanely loud football fans.

In case you are wondering what happened when I got to McFadden’s, I will tell you – nothing. I didn’t know anyone except for Clint and Clara. I basically talked to Clint for an hour, which is always amusing and made the afternoon worthwhile. Before I left, Clara apologized that it wasn’t really the right place for Colleen and I to meet and that she would set something up in a week or two so we could meet properly. Around 3:30pm, they all left McFadden’s to go to the game.

I walked toward the subway, hoping that the return ride would be uneventful.

Tagged: clint, dating, eunejeune, subway

Posted in: narrative