Turtle Shell Adventures

My turtle backpack stands out amidst the sea of adults swarming near the Metrocard machines. I fiddle around in my bag, my wallet seeming to play a game of tag with my hand inside it. The dim yellow lighting reflects the oils off of everyone’s face, making it look like they all over-moisturized at the CVS across the street. I tag my wallet and wrap my hand around it, squeezing the coins and cards inside. Slowly opening the zipper to minimize the number of contents that could fall out, I grab my Metrocard and a few crumpled dollars to prepare for the process ahead.  I nestle my turtle shell in between my feet, like a mother penguin guarding her egg, and waddle up to the machine. The scratched glass obscures the pixelated words on the screen as I hopelessly tap at it. After letting the computer gobble up my cash, I scoop up my bags and dash out of the mob before it consumes me. My bags drape around me, pulling my body closer to the floor with every step. Taking the yellow piece of plastic, I swipe it through and walk, banging my hips on the stubborn turnstile. I quickly turn back and swipe – again and again – before finally pushing the turnstile out of my way and propelling forward. Like a pinball machine I am thrown in all different directions before being flung out of a dance group onto the ground. I watch the floor slowly approach me, my hands hardly breaking my fall. With my face inches away from the brown subway tile, I recoil and spring up. Shifting my hands and pulling my bags back onto my shoulders, I get onto the shuttle to Times Square. 

I grab a seat on an almost empty car, feeling the heat on my face from my previous encounter with the floor. My childish turtle shell and green purse take up two seats next to me while I barely fill one. The subway doors slam shut banishing the rest of the world from the small car. A tall, majestic black woman stands to my left. Her long black hair rests down her back and her hips jut out giving her the silhouette of a Coke bottle. Her blue washed-out jeans hug her legs like a second skin. She is a goddess among us lowly travelers.

“HELLO EVERYBODY. I LIKE TO SING. SO I’MA SING A SONG FOR YOUS TODAY. IF YOU KNOW THE WORDS SING ALONG.”  Her melodious tone flows like a cool breeze through the stale air of the car. The colors on the ads become brighter as she walks past them, her voice touching them with its beauty. She struts to the other end of the car, harmonizing with a small Asian woman who also knows the words to The Sound Of Music. They both create heavenly music to my ears. I watch as they each stand tall arching their backs like bows, as the chorus pours out from their mouths. The black woman’s curvaceous body sways ever so slightly with the song that fills the small aluminum car. As the doors slide open, the two women reach a crescendo, leaving a loud silence that fills my ears. Peeling myself off my seat of the subway car behind, I dash to my next train. 

The 1 train smells like rotten eggs, body odor, and coffee. All who step in and out of the car look like zombies, their eyes sunken in, their hair matted and greasy, and their skin lacking life. In the graveyard of the train, however, there is one sign of life. A small girl dressed in pink stands in between her mother’s legs. Her small brown eyes lock with mine as her mother mindlessly stares into space. The girl’s soft blonde curls fall neatly around her face, and her coat seems to be straight off of a Barbie doll. We hold eye contact. I gently reach for my turtle shell and brush my fingers against the soft green strap. The doors swish open, and I slip out of the train. 

Back in the parade of humans, I focus only on the signs in front of me. All of them are a mess of numbers and words that I couldn’t care less about until I see the sign that reads “Penn Station.” I follow it hoping I am going the right way. Once I enter the overwhelmingly enormous building, my blood rushes through all my veins at once. I try to shake the feeling, but it only makes me feel worse. 

The whole station is an anthill. Everyone is pushing and jostling around busy with their own tasks, while I just stand frozen in time. I look at the changing schedule board, concentrating like a day trader watching her stocks . After reading every town on the list twice, I still can’t find the station that I am supposedly headed to.  I whip out my phone to check if I’m wrong, but the screen is unresponsive. My phone is dead. Again my veins feel like they are going to burst. Sweat drips from my temples like I just ran twelve miles, yet all I am doing is standing with a turtle backpack and a purse staring at a huge train schedule. 

After a few minutes of blurry vision and clenched fists I feel a bit calmer. I realize I’m looking at the Long Island Railroad schedule and suck in a deep breath.  I turn 360 degrees in search of the word Amtrak, and spot a small sign pointing deeper into the train station.

The high ceilings and tile floor make the train station feel like an airport. I am but a mere spec within the mob of people around me. I speed walk all the way to the ticket booth, every once in awhile catching a glimpse of my innocent turtle shell distorted by the old reflective metal panels bordering each store. I find my way to the ticket sales booth and  wait restlessly for the next available sales person.

“Next customer booth number nine,” the mechanical voice calls out. I walk to the red flashing light, feeling relief to find a smiling woman with black beady eyes behind the counter.

“Hi, can I have a ticket to South Station please?” My voice is shaky, but I flash my backpack and add an innocent smile at the end in hopes of it being reciprocated. 

She looks me dead in the eye and in a monotone voice replies, “That's $125.”

Appalled, I drop eye contact while simultaneously searching my pocket for money. “I-- I don’t have that much,” I confess. I feel the same embarrassment that I felt in second grade when I peed my pants, except this time there isn’t another pair of pants for me to change into.

My now clammy hands squeeze the four twenties in my pocket hoping that there is something cheaper. “Here, let me look to see a cheaper one.” Her voice is softer this time. I stand in nervous silence. “There is one at 3:00 for $77.” 

“Really? That expensive?” My response jars her to look up at  me again. Probably wondering why I am giving her sass at an Amtrak ticket booth.

“Yes, really.” Her eyes narrow at me. I grab all my money out of my pocket  and watch her look at me sadly while I hand it over. Avoiding eye contact this time she mentions, “The train platform will be displayed on the board ten minutes before 3:00.” She returns my three dollars, ticket, and receipt as I thank her and solemnly leave. Now I have four hours to kill.

My stomach is grumbling at me for only feeding it a cup of coffee this morning and now it’s talking to me in an unknown language of gurgles. Feeling my insides churn, I grab my things and go outside. The air of the station is suffocating me. 

As I emerge from the steps of the dark underground, beams of sunlight kiss my lifeless skin. I walk out onto the busy sidewalk of manic, tunnel vision walkers and dodge my way about six hundred feet to the cross walk. I am in the middle of the road when I realize I only have three dollars and a dead phone. Unwilling to find a cheap place or venture into the station again, I turn around and head back to the side of the street I just came from. I walk up a few steps onto a garden area that is for public use outside the entrance to Madison Square Garden. Taking a seat at the edge of the wall surrounding the plants, I face the restaurant in front of me. The floor to ceiling glass makes it seem as though the restaurant architects want me to be hungrier.

I open my purse and dig out some Marlboro Menthols and then open my turtle backpack to retrieve my lighter that I took from Walmart a few weeks back. I look at myself in the reflection of the glass. My ripped blue jeans, grungy five-year-old North Face, my matted, greasy hair, and bare face  all contribute to the whole “underage smoking photo.” Through the glass, I watch as a small boy  nervously clenches his father’s hand as he waits on line for his sandwich.  Next to me an elderly man watches as I light my cigarette in front of him, probably trying to figure out my age with a smoke in one hand and a turtle shell backpack in the other. The chaotic fire slowly burns the edges of my cigarette, creating a wave of serenity. Watching the end slowly grow shorter, I toss my turtle backpack on the ground in front of me letting the ashes from my cig slowly burn the fabric. As I sit on the ledge reminiscing about my chaotic Amtrak adventure underneath me, I feel time go by and watch my life line shrink with every drag of my cigarette.