The sounds of the dingy subway station sang out like a cacophonous theme song as he pushed his hip against the cold metal bar of the turnstile. Stifling the memory of what he had just done, he reached into his pocket, fishing for a travel-sized bottle of Purell. “Crawling, just crawling with germs,” he muttered to himself as he scuttled up the stairs in such a manner befitting of his meek stature. There was a utility closet on the left, that’s where he usually stopped to collect himself. The door was always locked, but a quick rattle of the doorknob and a slight tug to the left and it would crack open like a smile. He slipped in, unnoticed by the jaded river of businessmen and college students, and gently closed the door with the knob still turned so it wouldn’t make a “click” when it shut. He reached for the light switch – he had done this so many times he remembered exactly where it was. His hand found it immediately, without fumbling. As the dim incandescent bulb flickered to life, he rifled through the contents of his catch of the day. It was stately, Italian leather with an embossed alligator print. The metal clasp reminded him of the one his mother carried when they first moved to America. He was only seven at the time. He remembered how his mother would make him walk with her when she went down to the department store, He had hated it then, but secretly he felt a little proud that she had the means to shop there. “It’s crucial that you maintain your appearance, Haji,” she used to say, “People will already judge you enough because you are not from here; don’t give them another reason to hate you.” That was a long time ago, though, in the days long before she had gotten sick. Oh Lord, if she knew how he was paying for those treatments…he pushed the thought from his mind with a shudder.
By that time, he had emptied the contents of the alligator pocketbook onto the floor: credit cards, gym memberships, some old receipts, worthless. He might be able to pawn the wallet though, “Pity, pity,” he thought. This one was barely worth the guilt. After three years and five months, the fear and adrenaline had subsided, but the guilt, that never went away. He thought back to the woman with the lavender shirt. She had seemed nice enough, preoccupied, such an easy target. But then again, who would suspect a small bumbling Indian man of anything more than absentminded clumsiness. Damn, he hated himself for this. It was too easy. There was a part of him that wanted to hear a “Hey, you there!” or a “Stop that man!” Then maybe, just maybe, he could find the fear within himself to stop. But it never happened – not here in this city or opportunity. It should be called the city of blindness. It’s the lights, really – they just can’t stop looking at the lights. He closed the door behind him, leaving the scattered items on the floor, and rejoined the stream of drones, some blinded by hope and some by the lack of it. He needed $50 by Thursday.
