Right on Track

Waking up late for my 10:20 class in the morning, I am neither physically nor mentally prepared for the suffocating ride uptown. The lady behind me on the platform pushes me onto the train. Calm down please, I’m getting on there too. On the train, I smell a disgusting combination of choking cologne, coffee, and a stale odor coming from either ends of the cart where the homeless mark their territory by sprawling across multiple seats. Three more stops. Forced into the middle with nothing to hold to, I position myself strategically between a crowd of people reaching for the pole. Two more stops. With their arms hanging above my head, I duck in an effort to avoid bumping into their elbows. One more stop. The ride is a short 20 minutes, nothing compared with the hour ride to and from my high school for the past four years. Even so, I count the stops until I reach 23rd Street every morning, half-awake and irritated. This is 23rd Street. And I am late for class.