Hive Ave Fall2024 - Flipbook - Page 26
Fiction
Hive Avenue Literary Journal
Remembering the Gap
John Frame
The argument starts mundanely. In the way many altercations on the subway develop, it escalates when a decreasing
amount of space causes friction and heat as people jostle for
precious real estate. The train chugs slowly from stop to stop.
Wheels grind as if milling iron 昀椀lings from the rails. Nobody
with a seat wants to move from their 昀椀efdom of hard plastic.
There’s a long journey ahead for many, from the trickling source
at Van Cortlandt Park, to the raging rapids of bustling downtown. Faulty air conditioning, screeching brakes, the faint tinny
beats of other people’s music, the smell of deep-fried fast food,
and ripe, pungent body odor all fray the senses of original passengers - me and the woman and small child beside me - on this
train from the very start and in it for the long haul.
A young White guy with a curly mop-top and a Chicago
Bulls shirt who enters at Dykman sits across from us, enjoying
the music on his giant headphones, cut o昀昀 from the world and
unable to understand what’s going on beside him. He can’t hear
the squabble over the seat next to him. Both claimants to the
throne, who enter at 168th street, are older men in their 昀椀fties. One is a tall, thin, White man, in a suit and tie with a black
leather messenger bag, while the other is a stocky Hispanic construction worker, carrying a yellow hard hat, thick protective
gloves and a banged-up metal lunch box. Neither seems willing to relent and both maintain angry airs about the situation,
although the White guy manages to twist his long body into
the seat beside me. The woman shifts in the awkward jostling,
causing her child to jump mischievously from her lap, blocking
the construction worker’s advance.
The worker mutters something in Spanish, causing some
of the passengers to chuckle. This incenses the businessman
who feels the penetrating shame of the laughing eyes directed
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at him.
“This is America,” he blurts to his perceived tormentors, feeling the need to say something. “People should speak
English!” Turning to me, somehow a comrade in complexion, he
asks, “why is he speaking in Spanish?”
“I think he’s insulting you,” I say.
“That doesn’t answer my question, does it? I know he
insulted me!” The man shakes his head, realizing his supposed
ally is of questionable worth.
“Well, we are in Washington Heights,” I state, trying to
clarify the situation with geography.
“It shouldn’t matter where we are. This is America! We
speak English here, don’t we?” The construction worker glances
over at us with a sense of recognition and resignation. A long
day of hard toil ahead of him, stress is the last thing he needs.
“I can insult you in English if you like!” He stares directly
at the businessman, grinning, goading him to escalate the argument. The White guy doesn’t hesitate in his response.
“Why don’t you just go back to where you came from
instead?” There’s a short silence as everyone processes the
question. After a few seconds, the sounds of teeth sucking, tutting, and intakes of breath are all around. The exceptions are
the woman and her son, who communicate in the mysterious
body language of mother and child, and the guy with the Bull’s
shirt, lost in a world of musical entrancement.
“Nah, man, that’s out of order,” exclaims one voice.
“Did he really just say that?” a woman asks her friend as
the train stops to allow more people on.
“You know what I meant, right?” The businessman turns
his body awkwardly towards me, seeking my approval. “If you
come here to live, you need to speak the language of this country.” He holds his hands up, seeking divine intervention to arbitrate a matter he assumes is settled, natural law.
“I don’t think there’s an o昀케cial language in this country,”
I say. The man’s brow wrinkles right up to his hairline, like wet
