Subway Ride

I was riding the subway down to 66th street. I had an audition for the NYC Youth Orchestra at the Lincoln Center and was pretty excited about it. I was holding my violin case on my lap, thinking about the piece I’d been asked to prepare for the audition: the fourth movement of Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony. A very challenging piece, I’d worked on it for three months now. When I’d first seen the first violin part, I’d thought, no way! But my teacher told me I could do it if I worked, and I had. I could play it now; it was audition-ready, and I was proud of that.

We pulled in at the 145th street stop. A few people got off, a few on. I watched them come and go, and just before the doors closed, three teenage boys got on. They were wearing gray hoodies with the hoods up, concealing all but the front of their faces. They were all black kids and had their hands in their pockets. They looked around, appearing aggressive to me, and one’s eyes met mine.

He said something to the others and nodded at me. They all started walking down the car toward where I was sitting.

I felt my heart speed up. These three were older than I was, and each had a tough look. I didn’t have any experience with black kids. I didn’t like them coming closer. And then it got worse; they sat down on the bench I was on, one on each side of me, and the other across the aisle looking straight at me.

“Violin, huh?” the one across the aisle asked. “That an expensive one?”

I was starting to tremble a little. Did they want to steal my instrument? It wasn’t an expensive one at all; we were not a wealthy family. If I lost this violin, I doubt my dad would buy another to replace it. When I first got it, he told me he couldn’t afford to buy insurance for it; it wasn’t worth that anyway, so

I’d better be careful with it and not leave it anywhere.

“No, we got it at a pawn shop. I think my dad paid $20 for it. All he could afford. But it works okay.”

“Let me see it.” It was the same kid. I guess he was the spokesman for them. Maybe he was the brains of the outfit and the other two the muscle.

“No, that’s okay,” I said and hugged the case tighter. I didn’t like refusing him; how would he react to that?

The guy frowned. “What, you think I’m going to steal it or something? I just wanna look at it.” His voice was a louder now.

“I’m sorry, but my dad said not to let anyone else handle it.”

Feeling very shaky now, I looked up to see where we were. We were arriving at the 110th street stop. I wondered if I should jump up and get off. But if I did and they followed me, then what? There were a few people in the car with us. They weren’t paying any attention, but they were here at least. I didn’t know if there would be anyone around on the station platform or not. I argued back and forth with myself till the train started up again. Too late now.

The kid was giving me the eye. I couldn’t meet his menacing glare. I looked around him at the advertising cards, then out the window. I wished the train would move faster.

“What kind of violin is it?” he finally asked. He had a funny accent, and I wondered if that was just how black kids sounded. Maybe he was Jamaican. Or Puerto Rican. I’d heard those kids were the toughest, and you should never mess with one.

“One of those Stradivarius ones? I guess you can get some real money for one of those.” He was looking at me more than the violin case.

I shrugged my shoulders and didn’t speak. The train rattled on. I was looking everywhere but at the kid across from me. But from the corner of my eye, I saw him nod at the kid sitting on my right. That kid stood up, and the kid across from me took his place. Somehow, that was even more frightening. Now when he spoke, I needed to turn my head to see him. And he could read my eyes better. Probably see just how scared I was. I’d never even been in a fight before. I had no idea what they might do to me but knew I couldn’t stop them, whatever it was.

“So where you goin’?”

That sounded innocent enough, but what if he was asking so the three of them would be prepared to get off at the same time, too, so they could do whatever it was they were planning to do? Stealing my violin might be an afterthought. I could imagine lying in the street, all broken up. My imagination can work overtime on things like that.

“Uh, downtown some. Why?” That was very brave of me, asking him that. Sort of aggressive on my part.

He didn’t answer. We were stopping at the 110th street station. A few people got up, ready for the doors to open. They stepped out when they could, leaving only a few people left in our car. I’d felt some safety in numbers, but those numbers were dwindling, along with the safety.

And then it got worse. Three other black kids got on. They were about the same age as the ones already scaring me, and they were even harder-looking. They were dressed the same, hoodies and jeans, but looked scruffier and meaner.

The train started up. I glanced at the guys who’d been with me and saw them eyeing the other three. None of the six of them were smiling. Their eyes all seemed focused and hostile. I tried to sink deeper into my seat, but it was un-cushioned hard plastic, and the guys on either side of me were pressed against me tightly enough that any sort of movement wasn’t possible without a concerted struggle.

One of the new kids was checking out three I’d already been contending with, and he spoke to the one next to me who I’d guessed was the leader. This new kid seemed to recognize that somehow.

“He with you?” he asked, making a slight nod at me.

“Yeah,” the kid next to me said. “We got him.”

What did that mean? I was a prize and they got dibs? Or my violin was?

The Lincoln Center stop on 66th street was still six stops away. Too far. If these guys grabbed me and pulled me off before we got there, I knew I couldn’t stop them. What if they did that? What would happen to me?

The new kid wasn’t done. “What’s he got there, some kind of musical instrument? You check that out yet?”

“What, you got a problem here? I’d be very careful, if you know what I mean.”

The other kid took a step forward. I almost wet myself. If these guys got into it, I’d be right in the middle. If someone had a knife—these guys always had a knife, didn’t they? What if they did and all started swinging them around—oh my God!

The stepping-forward kid said, “I’m not the one who needs to be careful. You looking to start something?”

“If you are, we’re ready to go. Again, I’d strongly advise against it. You have no idea who we’re with.”

The guy who’d stepped forward looked over at his companions. They were both seated, and one of them was grinning. That one said, “He’s calling you out, Jerome. You going to let him?”

“Yeah, Jerome, you going to let me?” That was my seatmate. What was he doing, encouraging this guy? I was in way over my head.

We’d stopped at 86th street before Jerome decided what to do. Up till then, he’d locked eyes on my seatmate, who was locking his eyes back on him. Then Jerome stuck his hand into his hoodie pocket, and my guy followed suit. Eventually Jerome seemed to have come to a decision because he took his eyes off my guy, gave me a brief look of disdain, and then joined his friends on the bench on the other side of the car. After that, he didn’t even look at any of us again.

We finally—finally!—arrived at 66th street. “I’m getting out here,” I said, and forced my way out of the seat in a quick, probably unexpected jerk. I almost stumbled but righted myself. The three guys across the aisle immediately stood, too, but so did the three guys who’d hassled me first. They were right behind me, separating me from the other three.

I exited the car and took off, walking as fast as I could manage without actually running. I’d gone a pretty good distance before I had the courage to look back. There were lots of people going this way and that, but I didn’t see any of the six thugs who’d scared the crap out of me. I allowed myself to slow down and hoped my heart would stop racing.

I wondered if I’d be calm enough to play the audition at all. It was a very difficult piece, and I’d had to work extra hard on the cascading passage in the coda. My teacher had told me that professionals often just faked their way through that part as the rest of the orchestra was so raucous right then that the violins couldn’t be heard. But for a successful audition, I had to be able to play it. I thought that if pros struggled with it, why were they asking a 15-year-old boy to do it? But there was no one to answer that, and so I’d just gone to work. I had it down fairly well by now.

By the time I was inside the Center, in the right place and had warmed up, I’d calmed down. I thought I performed very well. The audition committee thought so, too. They said I was in, and the director asked me if I could join the rehearsal the full orchestra had scheduled starting ten minutes from then. I jumped at the chance.

I couldn’t believe it. When I was taken in and shown what stand to sit at, I saw my stand partner was the black kid who’d sat next to me in the subway, the one who’d been his group’s leader. My chair was right next to his. We’d read off the same sheet of music.

“Hey,” he said, his face lighting up when he saw me. “How’s it hanging?” Then he laughed and laughed and laughed, and it was so contagious, and I was letting go of so much tension, I ended up doing so, too.

The End