I saw a woman breastfeeding on the subway this morning. She had a baby girl on her lap, I would say two months old, and she was crying louder than I ever imagined a baby could cry. The mother was red and sweating, exhausted. She looked so overwhelmed I imagined she was going to cry herself. She rocked the baby, sang to her, rattled toys in front of her cute, little face. But nothing would work. Then, finally, when it seemed the crying would never end, the mother turned to me and the other passengers. She smiled, she sighed, and she quickly lifted her shirt, exposing her two swollen breasts. I turned away, a moment too late, I'm embarrassed to say, and the baby finally stopped crying. There was silence. Pure, beautiful, silence.
And that's when I noticed the other passengers. They were staring at the woman, disgusted. They stared at her breasts, making faces like they couldn't believe what she was doing. They rolled their eyes; shook their heads, laughed, and I wanted to say, "What?! The baby needed some food! Who gives a fuck!" But of course I didn't. I just sat there, feeling the stares get stronger and stronger until I couldn't take it anymore. So I stood. I moved in front of the woman, my back facing her, and I foolishly attempted to block all of the stares. It was silly, very unneeded, but I felt I had to. And it was then that two other men stood, both much larger than me. They came to my sides, our bodies touched, and we formed a wall, protecting the baby and mother, making sure no one would harm them.
And although it sounds ridiculous, as I stood there I felt like one of the Three Wise Men, using my body to shelter and give warmth to a baby Jesus on the A train of New York City.
Rose for a Gangster
I'm on the subway holding a bouquet of flowers. I'm going uptown, way uptown, to a cute town in the Bronx called Pelham, when all of a sudden six guys enter. They’re wearing wife-beaters, gold chains, and are covered in tattoos.
"Nice flowers," a voice says.
I look up. Real up, and I see a man of about 6'7'' and 300 pounds. He's got tattoos on his face, of spider webs growing out of his sideburns. His voice is low, so low I'm not sure if it's the subway or him vibrating my feet, and I can tell he's the one in charge.
"Thanks," I say, and the other guys laugh, like they all know a joke I can't seem to get.
"Where you taking those pretty, pretty flowers?" the big man says, and I start to sweat.
By now the other passengers are on the far end of the subway. I'm alone, just standing there, watching the big man raise his arm and expose a thin, pink scar covering his ribcage.
"I wish I had some pretty, pretty flowers," the big man says. And the guys snicker. They clap their hands, they stomp; they’re all having a grand old time while I stay huddled and grip my bouquet.
"These flowers are for my lady," I say. And everyone gets quiet. A bead of sweat drips from my cheek and lands on my hand. The big man sighs. He leans in close, sniffing me.
"You want one?" I say.
The guys, the passengers, and even the big man is now looking from side to side, like I'm telling a joke no one can seem to get but me.
"You trying to give me a flower?" the big man says.
"Just one," I say. I swallow and look down at my bouquet. I designed it myself, picking random flowers and putting them in a particular order. It was perfect, and I slowly slide one out from the center: a thin, pink rose.
"Here," I say. And I hold the rose out.
The big man is silent, like he's only seen roses in the movies, but never actually held one in real life. Then he opens his mouth. He gasps. A little, tiny, cute gasp, and he reaches for the rose with his callused palms. He sniffs it, and the other guys laugh, until he shoots them a look.
"Enjoy the pretty, pretty rose," I say. Then the subway stops. The doors open and the guys file out, silent, looking down at their feet. The big man is the last to leave. He doesn't speak; he just holds the rose close to his wide chest, protecting it, right below his thick, gold chain. For a second I think he might smile, but there's nothing; just a gangster holding a rose
Then the subway takes off to a cute town called Pelham in the Bronx, and my perfect bouquet feels a little lighter.
Sean Kenealy is a playwright and fiction writer currently pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing at The City College of New York. His plays have been staged in New York and Chicago at 13th Street Repertory Theater, Gorilla Tango Theater, Brooklyn's Impact Festival, Frigid Festival, and with The International BTC.