Squish

by Cassandra O’Sullivan Sachar

Macey stepped onto the subway car, mindful to clutch her bag lest it get snatched by a thief. Truthfully, however, any lurking burglars might guess that her knockoff Louis Vuitton held little of value. They would be correct—except for her prized portfolio showcasing her work, all she carried were maxed-out credit cards, some crumpled cash, her outdated iPhone, and a handful of pens.

Which is why she needed this job so badly. If Macey failed to secure this position, she wouldn’t be able to pay her rent for much longer, and that meant eating a big old slice of humble pie and moving back home to live with her parents. Even though she was bringing in great tips at her waitressing gig, the cost of living was simply too high. Hell, in the restaurant where she worked—not even a high-class place in a swanky neighborhood but just a dive in the Bronx—the cheapest glass of wine cost $20. $20! At the bar back home, that much money would’ve bought several drinks during happy hour. As it stood, even without any sort of social life, Macey could barely afford the prices at the discount grocery store.

And that’s why she needed to suck it up and take the subway. With all the seats occupied, much to her dismay, Macey wrapped herself around a pole, pretzeling her arms. She hated touching the metal with any part of her body, not wanting to imagine the germs lurking there, but she wasn’t great with balancing whenever the train jerked to an abrupt stop. Perpetually confused by the different lines, she despised taking the subway at all, which was why she applied to the closest restaurant to her apartment that was hiring. In bitter January, the three-block walk was miserable as well as dangerous, both for the icy sidewalks and lack of sufficient lighting, but at least the commute was simple.

There weren’t any theatres she could walk to, though, and that’s why she braved the subway to Manhattan yet again. She didn’t have much in common with her roommate, Jaden, but he was a native New Yorker who always plotted a route for her during the rare occasion when she scored an interview. Macey had always loved theatre and moved to the city after graduation with an actual position in stagecraft, thanks to her favorite professor linking her up with one of his former students, an up-and-coming producer with a new off-Broadway musical. She enjoyed six weeks of bliss, working around the clock and using her degree, before the show shut down after one brutal review.

Her parents had begged her to take the shortest-term lease she could find, saying she shouldn’t throw all her hopes and dreams into what might not pan out into a career, but theatre was her passion, and didn’t they want her to be happy? She’d rather eat canned soup and peanut butter sandwiches for the next decade than move back home and work at her parents’ car dealership.  

Today’s opportunity—stagehand at an off-off-Broadway comedy about a cheerleading squad moonlighting as vigilantes—wasn’t impressive, but at least it was in the industry. Macey liked to think she had a decent head on her shoulders, so she knew it could be years before she found reliable work. Still, with what seemed like a golden ticket in her pocket and no reason to stay in Ohio, she had made the leap of faith.

And that leap required occasionally riding the subway. The loud, cramped, often smelly subway. Hearing yet another wet, rattling cough, Macey buried her nose and mouth under the collar of her jacket and recited Jaden’s directions in her head: Take the 5, then the R. She just needed to pay attention to the platform signs so she knew when to get off the first train.

Macey willed herself to run through potential interview questions. Despite the likely small budget of the production and the probability that it wouldn’t run long, she desperately wanted this gig, if for nothing more than for the networking potential and line on her résumé. Although she excelled in her college classes and had been running shows in various capacities since high school, she knew the competition would be fierce, even for a stagehand role. She’d lost out on the last two low-paying theatre jobs to veterans with decades of experience.

As the train came to a halt, Macey grounded herself on the floor, grateful she’d worn sensible shoes. She was dressed much like she was already working as a stagehand: all in black, her hair pulled back with a French pin. She couldn’t wait to see her name on a playbill again, even in miniscule print.

It was only the first stop of many. The influx of new passengers gathered around her, one woman standing so close that the handle of her bag pushed into Macey’s lower back. A teenager plopped his ratty backpack right next to her, the stained canvas kissing her leg.

Macey breathed a sigh of relief when they started moving again. She didn’t have a ton of subway experience, but she knew that rush hour could be like this. She’d considered taking an earlier train to avoid the crowds, but that left her with the problem of where to go once she arrived in Manhattan. It was far too cold to wait outside, and she couldn’t justify the expense of a fancy coffee for the privilege of lounging in a café somewhere.

At each stop, she prayed that more passengers would get off rather than on, but few trickled out while many flooded in. Inching closer to the pole so that her cheek was almost touching it, she attempted to maintain some personal space, but it was all for naught. The smaller she folded herself up, the more others invaded the bubble around her. Someone’s elbow poked her rib; a woman’s breasts pressed into her back; an old man’s cane jabbed her leg; a toddler’s sticky paw touched the skin on her own exposed hand. But there was nowhere she could move to get away.

There were noises as well: some regular conversations, muted and solemn, indiscernible over the din; the incessant, hacking coughs, phlegmy and vile; the wails and shrieks of small children, likely as unhappy as Macey to be stuck on the train; someone’s thundering but legitimate complaint about how packed it was along with a stranger’s hostile retort to shut up, that no one could afford to drive with that damn congestion pricing.

Another stop. More passengers. No relief.

Grasping her bag like a child hugging a teddy bear after a nightmare, Macey knew she’d probably mashed her portfolio by now, but it was far from her top concern. Job be damned; she needed off this train.

That was it. She’d depart at her first chance and splurge on a cab the rest of the way. Macey couldn’t do this anymore; the deep breaths she took to calm down only caused her to inhale the acrid smells wafting off her fellow passengers, and closing her eyes did nothing to prevent the onslaught of other abhorrent sensations.

She needed to act now, to situate herself closer to the doors and escape at the next stop, wherever that was. Her vision blocked by the masses, she hadn’t seen the platform signs for a while and had no idea where she was.

Despite the frigid weather conditions outside, the train’s temperature rose as bodies mashed together. Macey’s armpits pricked with sweat under her layers as a wave of heat engulfed her. It was now or never.

Unwrapping her arms from the pole, her voice raspy, she said, “Excuse me.”

No one moved.

Thrusting her weight into one shoulder, Macey pushed at a colossal passenger’s chest, hard enough to get him to notice without being downright aggressive.

Taller than everyone else, the man moved his arm, attempting to create room for her. But, in the close confines, his hand whacked the back of her head, and his fingers tangled in her hair, yanking it back. “Oh my God! Sorry!” he said.

Turning, Macey saw a flash of gold as he caught the French hair pin he’d inadvertently pulled out, not letting it fall to the ground. An apologetic smile on his face, the man held it out to her in the sea of bodies.

At that moment, the train lurched to a stop, and the man fell forward, embedding the dual prongs of the accessory into the soft skin under Macey’s chin.

The man’s eyes widened, and then the screaming began. Under it all, Macey could hear a choked, gasping gurgle, and it dawned on her that she was the source of the grisly sound.

In the ensuing chaos, the crowd backed up, away from the young woman with the geysers of blood spewing from the twin holes in her throat. As the light in her eyes and all dreams of a successful future in New York faded away, Macey received one thing that she desired: space.