SHE circled the area around the 42nd Street subway looking for a railing she’d be happy chaining her bike to. It was near the corner of 44th and 8th, at the top of a subway ramp—the package was heavy and this would save time. It was 5:05 PM. She had twenty minutes to spare. She slid the box off her bike, supporting it on her hip, and headed into the subway, as fast as the weight of the box would let her.
She used the Metrocard, pushed through the turnstile and found the platform for the A-train heading north.
People crammed together waiting and reading. A few were chatting but most were avoiding eye contact.
Maxine was tetchy. She’d entered at the completely opposite end of the crowded platform and had to shoulder herself down its entire length to get to where the first carriage would open up.
After pushing hard and persistently, she reached where she guessed the train’s first compartment would stop—only a few stragglers stood beyond that point. Her stomach tightened: no TV crew. It was 5:12 PM. Thirteen minutes to go.
The tunnel at the other end started to glow. If she didn’t make the drop, she wouldn’t get paid, plus she would’ve wasted ninety damn minutes. She resisted panic and waited, nervously on edge. They’ll be here. She rocked up and down on the heels of her boots. Maybe the crew was coming in by train, this train.
It wasn’t an A-train; it was a C sharing the same platform. It careered down the track and screeched to a halt in front of her—at least she’d positioned herself correctly. Swapping the package to her other hip, she wiped her forehead
The crowd surged around her toward the doors and she held back, shielding herself against one of the purple I-beam steel uprights as the doors shushed open to launch the contest between those pushing their way on and those forcing their way off.
When the closing doors signalled the battle was over, her eyes searched up and down the platform for the TV crew. They’re running late, she decided, but the feigned confidence did nothing to ward off the mounting despair that she wasn’t going to get paid.
5:18 PM, and still no sign. Maybe she hadn’t heard the bald guy correctly and she was supposed to wait for the A-train going downtown? She gripped the box and raced through the nearby exit, tearing up the stairs and through the pedestrian tunnels. After what seemed like an age she flew onto the other platform, almost slamming into an elderly lady carrying a green Harrods shopping bag from London.
Her pulse pounded behind her eyes. No camera crew. But down the other end of this platform, she spotted one of her Crisis Courier colleagues with a similar box. Damn! It was someone else’s platform.
She tried to calm down and pulled out her copy of the delivery slip to check the details. It was definitely the uptown train. Hell! She sprinted back, this time taking the correct stairway to deliver her direct to the head of the platform.
5:25 PM. On cue. Her head swivelled around and back like a police car beacon, but there was no TV crew in sight. She was in the right place; she was positive. She’d just have to be patient.
Proof. She needed proof she’d been here on time. She placed the box at her feet and her clammy hand yanked her cell phone out of her pocket and dialled her dispatcher, but there was no signal. Her hand punched down on her leg: who needs this shit? Maxine was tensed up. This had been a bad week for her. She wiped her face on her sleeve and picked up the box.
Next to her, a calm and Burberry-clad woman in her early thirties cradled a small baby. Oblivious to Maxine’s plight, the mother’s head was bent, cooing sweet nothings to her child. She started the babble game and hummed a cute, vaguely familiar tune at the same time as repeatedly flicking her fleshy bottom lip with her index finger. The baby gurgled and cackled and those nearby grinned, apart from one ragged man who, undisturbed—or maybe not—continued rifling through an imaginary trashcan bolted to the wall.
“Excuse me, ma’am. I’ve got to deliver this box to a TV crew. They’re supposed to be here. You haven’t seen them?”
“We haven’t seen any TV crew, have we Sweetpea?” the stylish woman lilted to her baby, not looking Maxine in the eye.
“See, if I can prove I was here from before 5:25, I’ll get my money.”
Maxine’s box was too big not to notice and through the corner of her eye the mother also noted Maxine’s pink hair and sweat-glistened face and the dark threatening circles spreading under her arms. She’d heard stories. New York went hand in hand with scams. Don’t get involved.
ABOVE them in Times Square, the rush-hour traffic was nearing gridlock. Maxine was lucky not to have gotten caught in it and miss the time for her delivery altogether. On the sidewalks, motley street vendors hassled passers-by, indifferent to which were tourists, pre-theatre diners or office workers. Their sole concern was peddling assorted products of variable worthlessness: massive salt rocks pegged into hot pretzels; “gen-u-ine” luxury-brand watches for the price of a Texas Toast in a greasy diner; and pirated DVDs that were filmed with hand-held cameras in Chinese movie theatres.