#5 With Shotgun, Middle Manager and Carnival Ride

Two women get onto the subway with identical giant red suitcases. When I say giant I mean that one suitcase alone could accommodate a huge corpse, or two medium sized corpses, or one exceptionally large corpse and its child. I know that sounds unlikely especially because they are carting the corpses, I mean suitcases, along with those skinny telescoping handles that in lesser quality baggage might not handle the weight of the impressively gigantic bags contents and snap off or perhaps bend and not retract back into the bag properly. I have seen this sort of luggage sold on Canal Street and, yes, my assumption is the quality of these particular bags is inferior. Sorry ladies, but they are nice and clean and red now but, to my eye, this will not last long.

They are gabbing away in Spanish and wearing t-shirts in winter and are petite. From my perspective, each woman would fit comfortably in their own suitcase. I don’t think they will use the suitcases for hiding, or corpse hauling. My guess is they are headed on a trip somewhere warm and quite likely a Spanish speaking destination. Or, they just purchased them for their closest friends: two small Spanish speaking men.

Suddenly, we stop at Grand Central and the little ladies scamper off the train with their bags, which are clearly empty or filled with marshmallows or cotton balls because they maneuver them so easily indicating the gap between the weight differential of their bodies and the obvious mass of the baggage. They are happily planning their (friends?) trip in Spanish. That’s just a guess because my high school Spanish is horrible and I’m actually not listening to them.

There is an announcement from some middle manager MTA worker and many of us have to get off the train because it’s going express to Union Square and then City Hall. I was so cozy and happy in my seat and now I have to stand with the rest of humanity on the crowded platform and hope the next local will show up fairly soon.  I glance around and the Red Suitcase Ladies are gone and I’m impressed they made it up the stairs so fast.

A moment later, the next 6 train pulls up and I get on and am wedged between a man, who has a very nicely drawn tattoo of a shotgun on his neck and printed on the trigger in fine script: “Mom”, and a nondescript tourist wearing new sneakers. I cannot decide which is more bizarre, the tattoo or the twin suitcases. I like these moments of abstract inquiry because on some lucky days the subway is a carnival ride.