The Express

JP, a spring break visitor from New Orleans, and I rode home on the L the other night. We waited for too long next to a lubby-dubby high school couple and their friends until our train arrived. The car was surprisingly full for Monday night, but JP and I got seats in the front, facing the rest of the car.
We looked over the other travelers. She blurted, "I really like how different groups of people are together in restaurants and stores up here. In New Orleans everything is more segregated." Her voice rose to be heard above the voice of the train conducter monotonely speaking over the intercom.
"And there's lots of young people here." We both observe the horde of 20-somethings standing in an assortment of skinny jeans, calmly listening to their i-pods. (different than the pda highschoolers).
At the next stop, the car almost empties, but everyone who exited turned around to faced our train instead of walking toward the stairs.
JP laughed, "look at them. Why are they just standing there? It's like they're waiting for another train."
"Well, maybe they are," I answer unthinkingly.
The train starts moving and we sit back for a forgettable conversation. Looking out the windows, I noticed that we are not slowing down for the next station.
"It's not stopping when it should," I tell JP.
"What?"
"I don't really know what's going on." Images of train accidents and spiderman's heroic subway rescue race through my head.
The other passengers have noticed that we keep on moving. Some of them seem pertrubed while others slouch down more in their seats, moving from dozing to slumber.
I watch the suited man in front of us talking and gesturing to the woman standing at the door.
By now, JP and I have noticed that the small red light that flashes when the train runs express is flashing.
The standing woman glared angrily at the closed doors as the train whizzes past her station.
The suited man turned around and asks us if we know when the runaway train will stop. "I asked her," he beckoned at the standing woman, "and she said it would stop at the last stop." His attitude toward her is disdainful, and she seems debilitatingly tired, or maybe drunk. She sways with the movement of the train, looking hopelessly sad after missing her stop, and the suited man made a few more unnecessary jabs at her missing her stop.
The train finally stoppped and the suited man and sad woman leave.
"Let's stay and see if it keeps going or it if it stops when it should," I told JP. But mostly I didn't want to be stuck next to the awkwardly rude man, waiting for another train.