“He got in somehow,” the older man shrugged his shoulders. “There always are morons who think it’s fun and games to get into an abandoned station. Looking for adventure, you know. Though what’s exciting about this place? Only dirt.”
“So, it’s true…” murmured the younger man.
“What’s true?”
“That corpses are sometimes found in abandoned subway stations. I heard it, but thought it was an urban legend.”
“People, you know, in general, are liable to die,” the older man noted philosophically. “Some do it in the subway. Nothing unusual. All right, let’s go. We aren’t paid for talking.”
“City never sleeps”—the informal motto of New York
In September, taking into account summertime, astronomical midnight in New York comes at 12:56 a.m.
Entire stations or separate levels and platforms through which the train goes are closed many years ago. In particular, “City Hall”—the station on which in 1904 the opening of New York subway has taken place—was closed in 1945. Not all of these stations are on one line. In most cases the operating stations with the same names also exist.
Edward Luciano—a motorman, the causer of the largest accident in the history of New York subway (occurred at November 1st, 1918; 93 casualties).
Courtesy — Professionalism — Respect—the motto on vehicles of New York Police Department.
THE BOY WHO DID NOT BELIEVE IN SANTA CLAUS
There was a blizzard that morning, but by afternoon it had calmed down and only big white snowflakes slowly and solemnly descended in the motionless air. In the center of the city, the pre-holiday fuss still continued: cars, stalling and skidding in fresh-fallen snow, approached the brightly shining shops; impatient horns honked; music played; sparkling and multi-colored garlands twinkled, and glass doors let out more and more happy shoppers with beautifully wrapped boxes containing gifts… But here, on the outskirts, it was very quiet and absolutely lonely. Angie, sinking almost knee-deep in snow, slogged along a long lane which consisted mainly of closed gates of warehouses and blind eroded walls of old brick buildings. It was gradually getting dark— early, as it always happens in the end of December—but the girl didn’t think about turning back. She knew that nobody missed her in her home. Mother, as always, lies on a sofa and watches soap operas on TV. Near her, a huge package of chips stands, into which she periodically dives her thick fingers gleaming with oil, and then she chews noisily, dropping crumbs on the floor, the sofa, and her greasy shapeless T-shirt which she always wears at home. She stops eating only to smoke a stinky cigarette during the commercial break; then she coughs long and deep-chested, heaving with all her bloated body, then says “holy shit!” and returns to her chips. On her mounded belly the TV remote control rests. When a soap opera ends on one channel, she switches to another one.
Father will drag himself home by midnight, if not later. This depends on how much his and his buddies’ money will allow. The only good aspect of being on welfare is the fact that father doesn’t have enough money to drink as much as before. But his friends often treat him. Actually, his drunkenness was what cost him his job, though he blames “that fucking Jew,” the manager Reichmann. Father’s friends, of course, agree with him. It is even good if they managed to save enough money by Christmas in order to close down a bar properly. Then father will crawl home rather the worse for wear and will hit the sack immediately. But if, on a holiday, he can’t get totally drunk, he will come home angry and will fight. Usually he fought with mother, but Angie also got her portion. At first during such nights the girl tried to hide under a bed or in a closet, but when father could not find her at once, he flew into an even worse rage, and when he finally reached her refuge, she got thrice as many blows as usual. So it was better to endure submissively some slaps on her face, standing barefoot on a cold floor and repeating “I’ll never do it again, Daddy”. What exactly she “will not do”, Angie didn’t know, and neither did he. For him, it was just as important to carry out the “education” ritual.
Yes, the greatest Christmas gift for which Angie could hope was that her father would arrive home too drunk to fight and would sleep until the next afternoon. She didn’t dare even think about receiving something else, like even the cheapest toy. Only once, when her parents seemed to be in good mood, had she given a hint at wanting a gift. Not at all in a form of the request—she simply had begun to talk about what gifts her schoolmates received. But mother, of course, understood the hint very well. “Shut your mouth, girl,” she bellowed, “don’t you know your father was shitcanned from his job and we’re on welfare? We don’t got enough money for food (mother weighed well over two hundred pounds even then, and now she was approaching three hundred), and you’re dreaming about fancy toys! Do you think you’re a fucking princess?”
The princess. Angie had seen her in that big store downtown. Certainly, she couldn’t buy anything there, even a cola drink from the vending machine. But she could wander there slowly for hours, examining the displays and shelves. What toys weren’t there! There were electric cars possible to ride in and small motorcycles for children—not to mention walking robots and dinosaurs, and radio-controlled planes. But looking at boys’ toys was no more than just curiosity. Angie indifferently passed by the section of video games and the boxes with plastic models for assembling, spent some time near teddy bears, thinking up names for them (after all it would be silly to call them all “Teddy”!). And then her heart sweetly faded. She entered the section called “Barbie’s World”.
Here, there were Barbies for every fancy and taste, of all skin colors and occupations, in strict business suits and in flippant beach apparel, in evening dresses and in jeans, brides and young mums, teachers, stewardesses, even a mermaid with a fish tail and a Barbie in a wheelchair… But most of all Angie liked Barbie the Princess. Dressed in an airy, as if flying, white dress, with a small gold crown on her blond hair, the princess seemed an embodiment of all those light and joyful things about which, for Angie, it was silly even to dream. But she still couldn’t stop dreaming. If… if only she could once leave the store, folding the cherished box to her breast…
But even simply to stand here looking at the princess for too long was dangerous. The store security guard could approach and inquire, whether everything was alright with the girl and where her parents were. Angie was frightened to death that she would be taken to the police; she was sure that in this case her father would either beat her to death or maim her. Once she managed to convince the security guard that everything was great with her, and since then she avoided standing too long near the shelf. She tried to memorize how the princess looked, and then to go keeping this image before her eyes…
“Little girl, hey there!”
Angie shuddered in fright: it seemed to her that it was the security guard again. But in the next second she recovered from her dreams and understood that she was standing in the middle of a snowbound lane. And the person who addressed her was Santa Claus, arisen as if from nowhere. Dressed in a snow-powdery red jacket with white welt, a red cap with a white pompom, red trousers, boots and mittens. His face was also red (though, certainly, not as much as his clothing), with a broad white beard, and on his shoulder he held a bag—red of course, and obviously not empty.
“Ho-ho-ho,” said Santa Claus, smiling broadly in his white moustaches, “hi, little girl! Merry Christmas! Why are you backing away? Don’t you know me?”
“Sorry,” Angie said quietly, “I’ve never seen you before.”