Free Queens Noir by Robert Knightly Page A

a piece of the pole to my left. A teenaged black girl on my right was lost in the music playing from
her iPod, swaying in time to the song. I was lucky that it was
'70s Philly soul leaking from her headphones, not some rap
shit.
    I knew that I had to make my play before Queensboro Plaza,
the first stop on the ride to Shea with connections to other
subway lines. The express rattled through the first two underground stations, making so much noise that I couldn't even talk to myself, forget about talking to anybody else. When the
train left the Hunters Point station and emerged into the evening sunlight five or six stories above the Queens streets, the
clatter lessened to a normal din.

    He was humming along with a Delfonics song from the
girl's iPod and staring out of the windows at abandoned buildings covered from rooftop to ground floor in graffiti that appeared to be carefully designed and painted, rather than the
work of random punks with spray cans. He held onto the pole
with both hands. He seemed not to be in the subway car but
in a private place with a look of contentment on his face. It
was the same expression that my second ex-wife had when she
did yoga in the morning.
    I startled him when I told him that he was a brave man. I
saw in his eyes that he was confused and did not know whether
to ignore me, to ask me what I wanted, or, like any true New
Yorker, to tell me to fuck off. I continued to make eye contact
and said, "You're a brave man to be wearing a Red Sox cap to
Shea."
    He relaxed and smiled, never questioning how I knew
where he was going. "Oh, I don't think so. It's not like going
to Yankee Stadium when the Sox play. The crowds there can
get rowdy. Besides, we Red Sox fans have a lot in common
with you Mets fans," he said, taking one hand off the pole
long enough to point to the cap on my head. "We both hate
the Yankees."
    I smiled back at him. "Good point, good point. But I don't
know, man. We snatched Pedro from under your nose. And
if Manny stands at home plate admiring a home run ball to
show off for all his Washington Heights homeboys, it could
get ugly."
    Still smiling, he shook his head but was fading back to his own personal place with his own thoughts, not the thoughts
of some joker on the subway. He turned away from me to look
at the midtown Manhattan skyline that now dominated the
view from the left side of the train after it had pulled away
from the Courthouse Square stop. I needed to keep this conversation going.

    "I'm sitting up in nosebleed country. I'm gonna need one
of those guides that mountain climbers use to find my seat.
But what do you expect when you decide to go at the last
minute? Where are you sitting?"
    He still didn't know what to make of me but was polite.
"My friend's family has season tickets. Field level behind first
base." I knew all about the friend. I was standing in front of
him because of the friend.
    "Nice. I've sat around there a couple of times. I've been
going to Mets games since my dad first took me when I was
six. Most of the guys I know follow the teams that their dads
followed. It is like an inheritance, to my mind. He was a big
Brooklyn Dodgers fan. I mean, a huge fan. My mother says
that when O'Malley took his team to California, my father
said words that he never said before or would ever say again
in all the years they were married. So growing up in a National
League house it was only natural that we would follow the
Mets. But if the Dodgers were in the World Series or in the
playoffs, my dad, until the day he died, would root for the other
team. Even if it meant rooting for the Yankees." I whispered
the last part as if I were sharing a shameful family secret.
    I had hooked him just in time. The subway car was beginning to get crowded as more people going to Shea got on at
Queensboro Plaza. He could have easily moved away from
me to grab one of the metal railings in front of the benches of
filled seats.