Slightly Engaged. Wendy Markham
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only words I think I can make out clearly are “grapefruit,” “Ricky Schroeder” and “explosive.”
Or maybe I’m hearing them wrong.
“What did they say?” I ask Jack.
“Who knows?” he replies amid the disgruntled grumbling from similarly stumped commuters.
Okay, I might not have heard grapefruit or Ricky Schroeder, but I’m pretty sure I heard the word explosive.
I try not to think about terrorist attacks and suicide bombers.
Yeah, you know how that goes. Terrorist attacks and suicide bombers are now all I can think about.
In a matter of moments, I am convinced that this is no ordinary malfunction, but an Al Qaeda plot.
We’re all going to die, right here, right now. And when we do, we won’t even be able to slump to the ground because we’re wedged against each other like hundreds of cocktail toothpicks in a full plastic container.
I try to shift my weight, but succeed only slightly.
Great. Now I’m going to die standing up with what I hope is somebody’s umbrella poking into my leg. As opposed to a penis or a gun.
I try to shift my weight back in the opposite direction but that space has been filled. I can’t move.
To add to the drama, from this spot, even in this dim light, I have a clear view of yet another Married People Live Longer ad.
Dammit!
I know it’s not as if all the married people on board the train will be sheltered from harm in a golden beam from heaven while the rest of us losers die a terrible death, but…
Well, that stupid tag line isn’t helping matters. Not at all.
Married People Live Longer.
It might as well have said: Single People Die Young.
My chest is getting tight and my forehead is breaking out into a cold sweat. This definitely feels like a panic attack.
Mental note: place emergency call to Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum ASAP.
I’m trapped. Oh, God, I can’t even breathe. There’s no air in here.
Yes there is. Stop that. There’s plenty of air.
I inhale.
Exhale.
See? Plenty of stale, stinky air to go around.
“Come on!” shouts an angry voice in the dark.
“This is bullshit!” somebody else announces.
Another passenger throws in a colorful expletive for good measure.
Then a woman speaks up. “That’s not helping.”
“Shaddup!”
In no time, a train full of civilized commuters has transformed into a vocal, angry mob. If there were more room, fistfights would be breaking out.
“I can’t breathe,” I tell Jack.
“Yes, you can,” he says calmly.
“No, I can’t.”
Verging on hysteria, I fantasize about shoving people aside and breaking a window.
Two things stop me. The first is that it’s too crowded to get the leverage to shove anyone. The other is that I don’t have a window-breaking weapon in my purse.
I guess I can always snatch the umbrella that’s still pressed up against my leg. If it’s an umbrella.
If it’s not…
Well, you definitely don’t want to grab a stranger’s penis in a situation like this.
Then again, if it turns out to be a gun and not a penis, I can always shoot my way out.
Then again, if it’s a gun, its owner might shoot me.
The thing is, if it’s a gun, there’s a distinct possibility that any second now, he might go berserk and start shooting. Things like that happen all the time.
Oh, God. I really can’t breathe.
“Jack,” I say in a shrill whisper, “I’m scared.”
“Why? It’s fine. We’re fine.”
See, the thing is, that’s easy for him to say. He doesn’t know about the freak with the gun.
“I’m really scared, Jack.”
“Of what?”
“You know…” Conscious that the fifty or so people standing within arm’s length might be eavesdropping, I whisper, “Death.”
“Relax. You’re not going to die.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—well, why would you think you’re going to die?” he asks, loudly enough to be heard in Brooklyn.
Terrific. If the guy with the gun/umbrella/penis didn’t think of opening fire yet, Jack just gave him the idea.
“I don’t,” I snap. “I don’t think I’m going to die.”
“But you just said—”
“I was joking.” Before I can muster a requisite laugh, the lights go back on and the engine whirs to life.
The train starts moving again as if none of this ever happened.
Problem over, just like that.
Panic attack averted.
At least for now.
“See?” Jack says. “I told you you’d survive.”
“We’re not home yet,” I point out. “It’s not survival until we’re safe at home.”
“Isn’t that a little extreme?”
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug. Actually, I’ve been in a permanent shrug since we got on the train, thanks to the close quarters. “I just really want to get home.”
Jack just looks at me for a second, then says, “You really are stressed.”
“I really am stressed.”
And you’re the cause of it.
All right, so he had nothing to do with the stalled subway.
But I do find myself thinking life’s minor—and major—disruptions would be much easier to handle if we were engaged.
Then I find myself thinking, in sheer disgust, that I really am one of those marriage-obsessed women after all.
I’m Kate, when she was hell-bent on marrying Billy. All she ever wanted to do was speculate on the status of their marital future, ad nauseam. Raphael and I thought she was our worst nightmare then. Little did we know she’d be even scarier once she had the ring on her finger and a formal Southern wedding to plan.
Now here I am, my own worst nightmare.
How did this happen?
As the train hurtles toward uptown, I tell myself firmly that it didn’t happen—yet—and it won’t happen. I will not focus my energy on an engagement that may or may not be imminent.
If Jack wants to marry me, great.
If not…
Well, not great. But not the end of the world, either.
Mental note: time to stop dwelling on getting engaged.
This wanna-be-fiancée stuff is getting old. I need to toss my secret stash of bridal magazines and stop asking everyone—except Jack—why he hasn’t proposed yet.
Not that I’m going