The Absent Clock

On a subway train; notable by the artificial lights flickering over head while the windows flash by segments of prolonged darkness with a blip of light here or there. A telltale rumble scream of wheels on tracks crackling with electric energy and propelled momentum is both the constant white-noise waterfalling through independent conversations, and the pulse which keeps them moving forward in a rocking like motion.

Sometimes, the lit-up interior of another train blurs by with a doubling roar, carrying other passengers to their destinations. But this subway train is on its last journey, and it’s going to miss a lot of destinations in order to divert just one passenger.

They'd been searching every car from back to front. They were twelve men, could have been SWAT except for their numbers, and the simple but glaringly black fact none of their uniforms or armor had insignia on it. With enough guns to start a small war in any city, they each took another glance at the photo they had on hand, then pocketed it like synchronized swimmers and readied their weapons for the next round.

They were a twelve-man singular sentinel organism of search and security and they were somewhere in the middle of the train, preparing to breach the next forward car. None of them spoke to each other, but those closest to the group could hear the whispers of their uniforms and the clink-click of their weapons settling in their straps like a quiet, humbled warning.

Passengers were torn between watching them, and trying to stay unnoticed. Some of them had enough empathy to feel sorry for the passengers in the next car, but yet, no one made a peep to alarm them- this wasn’t just another day on the subway train.

Hollywood likes to show people screaming at the sight of armed men; but on the subway, everyone who was conversing, or laughing, or even mumbling to themselves, became suddenly silent when the doors opened from the rear and vomited forth a wolf pack of heavily armored and armed men in black.

While the team set eyes to searching, the passengers eyes were warring between watching and ’I don’t see anything.' Some of them started a thought-prayer of one form or another, hoping they weren't the target.

The thickest tension came from those used to being profiled, already ready to endure the struggle and dehumanization. Some completed a mental inventory of the things they’d best leave with a friend upon their assumed impending arrest- for who knows what, it doesn’t always matter, doesn’t always have to be legit.

How the heart beats ticked by the absent clock, synchronized in the faces of those still waiting for an explanation, some sliver of understanding, a reason for the armed-team’s presence.

To their collective relief, one of the men shouted some acronym of authority and a spirited "get out, now! Out of this car, move it, everyone!"

The other armed men clearing a path for the passengers as surely as circling the car to seal off both exits after. They ignored the dirty looks, confusion, and mumbles of abused control in favor of their unspoken mission. The rest of the passengers were liabilities, better to herd them into the adjacent cars, even if the train was still moving.

Through it all, one passenger seemed oblivious to the commotion, sitting toward the forward middle. A feminine figure in warn out bootcut blue jeans that definitely weren’t bought that way, rag-tagging fringes licking at her faded black converse in contrast to the crisp, new, neon pink hoodie, and she didn’t even seem to notice what was happening.

To be fair, she was sitting behind a hand pole, knees drawn up with a book propped on them, blocking most of her view. Her eyes were glued avidly to the pages, fingers turning them with a loud shhhushing as the cart emptied of shuffling feet and panted breaths of -move faster!-, presumably drowning in a symphony of her chosen playlist via neon blue earbuds.

She was the one, the face in the photo, and no one made a move to disturb her. The team was hoping to wait until the exit of all other passengers, and the passengers were just glad to be out from under their scrutiny.

Afterall, how many folks get a run-in with the unmarked SWAT team and escape without cuffs, stinging eyes, or bruises of body and pride? Nevermind the slight up-tick of cool-points in getting to walk car-to-car mid-transit for reasons other than transience, the car was empty of other passengers in less than 60 seconds from the first command.

One of the men palmed the radio on his shoulder, thumbed the PTT button and grumbled an official; “Stage One of Operation Flamingo complete; I repeat, we have the Flamingo secured in Bay 7, proceed to Stage Two. Over.”