Loop

By Yvonne Maier

He’s always there. Waiting. He sits on the wire mesh bench at the subway station, and the breeze from the dark tunnel stirs bits of lint around his polished black leather shoes. He’s dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit and a crisp white shirt. His dark blue bow tie gleams faintly. A black felt hat rests on his lap. I rush past him, earbuds in, listening to a podcast. Today, I wonder how many times I’ve hurried by without ever noticing him. Days, weeks, maybe even months. The subway screeches into the station, the doors slide open, and a surge of people sweeps past me. Past him. Around him, there’s this bubble of stillness. He isn’t reading, isn’t listening to music. He’s just waiting. 

The first time I actually see him—really see him—nothing special happens. My headphones die, a soft alert tone pings in my ear, bingbingbing, and my podcast on current U.S. politics cuts off. My eyes roam around the station with a strange urgency. And there he is—the man in the charcoal suit and felt hat. Sitting quietly in the middle of a sea of people, lost in their own worlds, staring into their smartphones, listening to music or podcasts. Or audiobooks. A few of them are on the phone. The breeze from the approaching train ripples through the crowd. My gaze lands on his face, and yet, his hair doesn’t move in the draft. As if he’s in the eye of the storm, untouched by the wind. His eyes meet mine. Just for a moment, but everything around me seems to slow down—the wind, the noise, the people. I hold my breath, my heart racing. I feel as if he’s been waiting for me. I turn away abruptly and rush onto the train with the rest of the crowd. Warm bodies press in around me, the doors beep shut. I steal a glance back. He’s smiling, his eyes still holding mine for just a few more seconds. Then, darkness outside the window.

Since the day I saw him—and he saw me—I can’t shake his presence. I sense him as soon as I step onto the escalator, when I’m standing at the far end of the platform, even when I switch up my routine or take the bus instead of the subway. Sometimes, I feel like he’s laughing at my attempts to avoid him. Days, weeks go by. I avoid his gaze. It’s not that I’m afraid of him. He’s not threatening. But it feels like he’s there for me, every day, sitting on that wire mesh bench at the subway station. And I can’t bring myself to find out why.

It’s autumn now, and I descend into the station, my jacket damp from the rain, my umbrella dripping. I feel his presence, and for the second time, I really look at him. That’s when I notice something so obvious I can’t believe I missed it. Maybe it’s as absurd as the fact that I hadn’t seen him for so long. He’s always wearing the same three-piece suit, the same polished shoes. The felt hat. Either he owns a hundred identical outfits or he’s always wearing the same one. The same one. I can feel his silent laughter filling the station as, over the next few weeks, I subtly try to figure out if he’s really always wearing the exact same clothes. Autumn fades into winter.

Today, the first snow of the year blankets the city. I trudge down to the subway, shaking the snow from my hat. And then, suddenly, I’m standing right in front of him. We look at each other. He smiles.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning,” he replies. His voice suits his appearance—smooth and refined, just like the suit and hat.

“I’ve been watching you for a while,” I say.

“I know.” I sit down next to him. The warm, musty breeze from the train swirls over us. The beeping of the doors. A flood of people pours onto the platform. I stay seated. Calm.

“You want to know, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Then you’ll have to give me your hand,” he says, holding out his right hand, palm up. There’s a faint scent of soap. To this day, I can’t explain why I put my hand in his, not even knowing his name. But I did, and it’s the most magical thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Let’s catch the next train,” he says, standing up. I’ve never seen him standing before. He’s about a head taller than I am. The next gust of wind tugs at his trousers, tousles his hair. He breathes in deeply, and his whole body seems to light up with anticipation. With my hand in his, we walk toward the platform. The doors open, people shuffle on and off. We step inside.

“We’re only going one stop,” he says. Around us, people are plugged into their headphones, listening to podcasts, eyes glued to their phones, books in hand. Beside me, a man out of another time, in a charcoal suit, felt hat, and polished shoes. In his face, I see a little boy—excited, as if he’s riding the subway for the very first time.

The next station is announced in a crackling voice over the intercom. The train slows, doors beep open. People shuffle on and off. We step out onto the platform. It’s the first station after the tunnel, where the line emerges above ground. People hurry off, and suddenly, we’re standing alone, surrounded by the white expanse of snow, the sky tinged pink in the light of dawn. I look at him. There are tears in his eyes as he breathes in the crisp air.

“I’ve never been here before,” he says.

“It was only one stop away,” I reply.

“It was an eternity away,” he says, squeezing my hand tightly. “A long time ago, I got on the subway, and every stop I got off at was the same one I’d boarded.”

“Were you always at the station we left from?” I ask.

“No, that was a different one. It took me a while to figure out that I could move forward one stop, but only if someone took my hand.”

“Why did you wait so long to ride with me?”

“Because you didn’t see me for a long time. Ever since people started walking around with headphones and smartphones, it’s been harder to be noticed.”

I take a deep breath, letting it settle in my belly.

“It’s been a long time since anyone has taken my hand,” he says, releasing me. He breathes in the winter air one more time, deeply. “Thank you.”

He turns away and leaves the platform. 

I never saw him again.