8 minutes, March 26, 2014; platform for the A train (express)
They’re supposed to be super fast in this city built for speed. Lightening speed, pulsating and caffeinated like the inky joe served up in the iconic blue cups. But minutes are an eternity when my bladder is full. Across the tracks, the local C and E rocket into the station at four minute intervals, each arrival a shot to my kidneys. Thundering out, they mock my choice. Apparently I choose train routes and platforms with the same (non)skill I have for choosing check out lines at the grocery store.
My body is micro-managing by the minute, holding onto control as the platform bustles with a new flood of bodies discharged from a connecting train. Conversations shift around me, each coupling a mini-telenovela of personal dramas. Three competing sagas are stationed around me but I can’t pick one to follow, my concentration is compromised by bladder distress. Dammit I should pick up cranberry juice from the deli. Where is the damn train?
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