SEPTEMBER 14, 2019 – At 10:18 I zipped out the door and onto the elevator. Remembering I’d not brushed my teeth, I fished the last piece of peppermint gum from my briefcase. As the doors opened on the fifth floor, I just about mowed down a waiting passenger. She screamed. I apologized. On the ground floor, I made a proper exit, shot out of the building and flew two blocks to the subway entrance.
I dived down the stairs to the turnstile just as the board said my train was one minute away. It reminded me of “time is of the essence” clauses in contracts and new meaning in old words.
I seized my wallet for my subway card only to discover that I’d left it back at the apartment. I turned to another aging couple with the thought of using their card in exchange for cash. Before I could ask, they asked me where they could buy a subway card.
“Right here!” I said, darting to a nearby machine. Down to 50 seconds, I wasn’t about to let two people of my vintage slow down the process. They politely obliged. In world record time, I completed the purchase of new subway card and chased to the lower level where . . . I watched helplessly as my “C” train pulled away from the platform. Eight minutes, the board said, until the next “C” train.
Soon the polite aging couple joined me on the platform. What to do but engage said couple in conversation? They were a hoot—alert, engaging, good-humored, residents of New Hampshire but no strangers to The City. As their “B” train arrived, they expressed polite regret that I’d not caught the earlier “C” and wished me luck. I told them “thanks” and how our brief but enjoyable conversation had more than compensated.
At 10:34 I boarded a “C.”
At 10:44, gripping my luggage, I blasted out of the subway car and raced through the underground passageways under signage that promised, “Amtrak.” But on which track, the 11:00 train for Boston? “Long Island Trains,” but nothing for Amtrak. Through the crowd I rushed, pretending I was on center ice in the final game for the Stanley Cup, with one last chance before the buzzer. All ahead—the puck, the net, the goal! But exactly where?
And then all appeared: the Amtrak board. My train number flashed second from the top—with “On Time” under the departure time and “Stand By” below the track column. At that moment, my mad-cap dash slowed to a beautiful frame-by-frame sequence. In the slot I’d caught up to the puck, spinning wildly on its edge. Gliding on my right blade, I swung my stick back, looked straight at the goalie’s stick and skates, aimed to his left, drew down my stick toward the puck, and . . . smacked it toward the opening.
Just then, the screen changed from “Stand By” to Track 8, the entryway to which was but six strides away. The puck sat suspended an inch from the goalie’s left shoulder.
“Score!” I shouted silently, as I stepped aboard the train and the net caught the puck.
I entered the coach, dropped my bag and clutched my briefcase. In the moment, I held the Stanley Cup.
Funny thing was, no one noticed.
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
