Mr. Pickles
I had just moved to the city; found an apartment a few blocks from the F Line subway station on South 53rd. My new coworkers warned me that all the crazies rode. the F train, so I was prepared for homeless preachers, dirty guys muttering to themselves, insane hookers, anything. I had seen my fair share in the week I had been here, but today there was just a cat.
It had gotten on at the Covington Avenue station and hopped up to the seat next to mine. I could see by the magic marker letters on the nylon collar that it’s name was Mr. Pickles. As the train started to move it braced itself by spreading it’s legs the way any veteran subway rider would. From there on it just sat in the seat and looked straight ahead, only very seldomly would it glance around in seemingly feigned interest.
After a few stops I reached my hand out to stroke its head, but it just turned to me, squinted, and growled as if it was saying “keep your hands to yourself, mister”. I pulled my hand back as requested and the train ride continued in near total silence.
As the automated announcer called out the Jackson Street stop coming up the cat leapt down from the seat and slowly made it’s way to the sliding doors, once again bracing itself as the train came to a stop. Out it trotted from the car and on to the platform. Through the window I could see it climb the stairs and out of view.
On the same day every week Mr. Pickles rides the F train from Covington Avenue to Jackson Street. I have no idea why.
