“We think, because things have been easy for mankind as a whole for a generation or so, we are going on to perfect comfort and security in the future. We think that we shall always go to work at ten and leave off at four, and have dinner at seven for ever and ever.

H. G. Wells

You may assume I am lying. You, out there, who have no need to get away from the surface. You, who have so adapted to the darkness and have never felt the urge to break away, once and for all, from mass transportation dependence.

And because of your silent conformity, we straphangers of subway trains have been condemned to a nightmarish world in exchange for our mobility.

This morning I woke up at dawn, as usual. My one and only thought: to beat the crowd and catch a less congested train. I didn't hold expectations for an available seat, but prayed for at least a space in which to fit. A bar or post to claim as my own.

5:45 a.m.

While l was taking a shower, I realized that my day orbited around a filthy, subterranean mass of steel. A regular workday was part of a dense and anxious parenthesis, namely the back-and-forth trips of a subway train.

What I would have given for a job closer to home. A job where I could have other alternatives, such as walking, biking or another means of transportation.

“lt is easier to get a visa for a 'mojado' than to get a job in your neighborhood!'” self-appointed expert Miguel said to me one day. 'Utopic' had been our last addition to an already gentrified yuppie jargon.

6:00 a.m.

Fifteen years riding the ol' Hulk. Watching it gradually disintegrate like a rotten log. I've read of its exciting historic beginnings, when the train still sped like an infallible bullet. Punctual. Safe. There were crowds then, never hoards. People used to exercise tolerance and knew their destination. These days, however, even tolerance ran short. Passengers became anxious beings who traded their soul for a place to rest their tired bodies and troubled minds. Such space did not exist any longer.

In no time, a mass of people invaded the subway stations like sinister lava flowing against our destiny. it became a restless, hopeless, vibrating molasses-like river during peak hours. By the time of the full moon, this amorphous mass split itself into millions of human particles desperately crawling toward their own cosmos.

6:30 a.m.

An army of passengers, anguish reflected in their sad faces, awaits the train. Their facial features are engraved with countless premature wrinkles. They stand as a single body, piled on top of a faded yellow line. Ignoring the danger for the sake of ensuring their entrance into the belly of the monster.

The metallic dragon crawls closer. You can hear its roaring hot breath and feel it on every inch of your skin. A dusty stream of light emanates from its fierce bulbs reflecting on countless pairs of staring eyes.

The subwaynauts pack themselves even tighter, as if attracted by an Irresistible magnetism. Everyone searches in despair, within a total inertia, among alien hands and elbows for a little sip of air, just enough to keep themselves alive, barely avoiding the inevitable aggressive looks.

They shrink and struggle to overcome the claustrophobic feelings. They seek refuge within their most Intimate thoughts and dreams. They close their eyes so as not to give the wrong idea to pickpockets or sexual harassers who may actually rob or abuse you by telekinesis. Any moment is definitely suspicious. The only legal vital sign is the one that allows you to breath with difficulty. Someone breathes humid hot air through my hand's skin. I can even feel a body's inner vibration behind my back. I remain on guard to avoid helping to awaken undesirable libidos.

6:40 a.m.

Six passengers enter. A single person gets off. Math stops being an exact science. Out there people refuse to rely on pure facts alone. Six can go into one! Or at least they try to. The last person could have been expelled, had it not been for the automatic door. Looking like a tourist, a man reads the New York Times spread open like a sailboat canvas. All stares converge on the reader and his paper to angrily force him to renounce a right he doesn't own. For a while, however, the reader pretends to impose his will on the living bodies of incandescent eyes struggling with somnolence. A sector of indifferent riders keep to themselves, In a trance. The curious ones dare to read the headlines. The rest fix their accusatory eyes on the parasitic readers. The unfortunate passengers continue their furious but silent battle over the territorial invader. Visual pressure proves more powerful than selfishness and our man capitulates. His problem now is to fold his sailing paper into several points. He gives up, gallantly sparing victims and inconveniences on the collective ego.

6:49 a.m.

A mass of passengers forces itself into the tighter-by-the minute car, thus violating an already occupied sacred space. There are no exchanges. Nobody gets off, everybody gets In. How could these bodies continue to shrink, move, breath, without suffocating or disappearing into oblivion?

The train operator pretends to inform the public through a squeaking speaker, transmitting in a Harlem-accented voice mixed with static and the short circuit noises of a communication system eroded by rust, time and human aggression.

6:55 a.m.

 At this point of the feast, the metallic worm spits out a good number of straphangers. A few outsiders join the temporary traveling society. Among the newcomers, an outdated jester, a mixture  of hippie-guitarist-bum.

(Hey, music man! Instead of growing hair, we must either pay tribute to our narcissism or torture ourselves. We must dress from Bloomingdale's or shave our heads, leaving just enough hair to paint with colorful sprays. Flesh and ragged jeans, metal and leather must wrap our wrists and ankles. We must make statements about our insecurities and search for sexuality. We must silently beg for authority and defy pain and mortality in screaming colors until the end of the century!).

The guitar man doesn't give a damn about the critical looks. He starts playing an out-of-tune version of “This Land is Your Land.”

(For heaven's sake, hippie! Is this the land we inherited? I don't know which is more perverse, your ugly voice or disharmonious affirmation. Who will tell you the truth about the obsolete song? Who is going to make you aware of your violation of the human right to start a silent morning?)

7:00 a.m.

The train continues moving fast and slow, fast and slow. In the same style and manner, the audio tortures alternate, sometimes the conductor, other times-, the guitar man, and many times both of them, thus giving birth to an unbearable cacophonic duet.

“Shut up!” my senses protest, eager for quiet.

7:15 a.m.

lt's cold. I try to accommodate myself in the small seat on one end. I thank the Creator -and all creators for that matter- for the partial heat under my seat and my new companion, a tall, Moorish-looking man who wears a coat, block, like the rest of has outfit. To match his Judas Iscariot- like beard and hairstyle, a golden earring, metallic bracelets in both hands, rings of all shapes and designs, and a golden medallion. He looks like a crazed actor who is in the middle of playing a Mr. T-ish Othello, and who alter having strangled his Desdemona has taken a break in this scene. His is a blank stare. Almost nonexistent.

All of a sudden, his thought seems to recover intensity. A nervous uneasiness possesses has hands. In a few minutes the Shakespearean Moor has obsessively bitten his fingernails off, transforming my admiration into caution.

7:21 a.m.

I try to concentrate on my Truman Capote paperback. But the rocking motion of the machine blurs the words, making me doze off. 'Me burned o¡¡ vapors numb me. A tinkling sound originates in the paper cup of the beggar who's collecting more pity than coins. The guitarist makes way while continuing an obviously improvised tune. The new show acquires the dimensions of a traveling circus:

“Ladies and gentlemen, readers and sleepers, subwaynauts, the company of unfortunate jesters allows itself to torment you for the ridiculous amount of a token! Yes, ladies and gentlemen... your fare buys you these unexpected visions from underground New York!

On this occasion, we have, ladies and gentlemen, a most popular subway show: The Beggar's Hour, when the most kind passengers witness an incredible variety of human misery. See them parade in front of your very eyes. The wide variety of castaways, homeless, bagladies, crippled, unemployed, winos, demented, all for the minimum charge of a token.

See for instance, the little black woman, who manages to survive in half a body, an inexplicable phenomenon even in the most “civilized” metropolis on this earth.

Observe, immigrants of present plight, the alcoholic beggar whose presence is preceded by nauseous odors, impossible to classify In the human body! Participate in the incredible story of the demented saxophonist, bearer of psychedelic glasses and antennae installed on his useless headphones. His extraterrestrial music announces that this musician has arrived from a far-off galaxy and that his ship has had serious technical difficulties.

“This is why, ladies and gentle earthlings, I am obliged to beg for currency in this planet, so I may repair my ship and depart...”

(“Yes, tourists of all countries of the planet earth, we must help this alien soul so he may bring a peaceful message to our future visitors...”)

The guitar man continues providing the show with his horrible background music.

7:29 a.m.

Train brakes. The jester pretends to interpret a Beatles' song. Pathetic crime against music. Ridiculous ode to a diseased train.

The loudspeaker hurts the collective eardrums with its acute screech, leaving it to the subwaynauts to guess the cause of the delay. Perhaps the suicide or homicide of a fed-up passenger In the next station. Or an explosion to protest the MTA executives' despondency. In any case a tragedy because all subwaynauts in this train will be late for work and the bosses won’t buy the excuse of individuals who don't drive extensions of their personalities to work.

Judas doesn't move. He is now curious about the guitar man whose lyrics, for the first time, offer a relief. He has mercifully chosen “The Sounds of Silence.” The train resumes its forced pace. The steel structure moves as if it had survived a heart attack. The jester sings it all: “The voice of the prophet is written on a subway wall...” I eagerly examine the scribbles, signatures, nicknames, tags, scratched by the mania of our youth. I search for messages of hope. I desist. There is only chaos in the sketches and the raging colors. The messiah of graffiti hasn't arrived yet to announce the end of a nightmare.

7:40 a.m.

A new announcement through the speakers: “This train is going out of service!”

No explanations are offered. Instead, the conductor screams angrily at passengers who protest or defy him by daring to remain inside the train. He threatens to shut the door and lock them in. They panic.

To hell with explanations! Who do you think you are to demand and explanation? Poor devil, good-for-nothing passenger who has no choice but to travel In the guts of a sick, bored monster! Why ask why the dragon has expelled, vomited, defecated this human mass?

The disoriented, indignant, upset, angry, furious, out-raged, sick and tired subwaynauts again run out of choices. They must get off and swallow their anger or direct it toward other victims.

“What are you staring at?”

“Don't push me, you creep!”

They look everywhere searching for those responsible. For a body to humanize the fastidious, hateful, aphonic voice inundating the station. There is nothing but victimized bodies in sight.

No such luck. The subwaynauts look, confused, and impatient, at their watches. They would trade their souls to stop or stretch time for just a few seconds. Others just realize how futile life is inside this cavernous system created for progress. There are other options. There are exits. The mere thought brings freedom.

To get out of the subway. To breathe air, fresh air, any kind of air, a different atmosphere, other than the poisonous breath of the metallic dragon.

To look at open sky, something to guarantee life after the subway. A cleaner vision than the filthy platform or the unhappy faces in the subway. A wish to put distance between one and the crowds.

To walk without being pushed, an urgent need to see new ways, new exits.

To take a day off because the dark, humid, stinky passages, sleazy grounds, agonizing lights pervade the senses. But most of all, to escape the overwhelming fatigue that invades body and soul.

To have control over my own destiny. This has become my sole priority at 7:49 in the morning.

1986

hey corrode wood from within. They dig tunnels and secret passageways. They cause furniture to tumble down, walls to slump, floors to sink and whole houses to collapse. They are the direct descendants of an evil race called The Termites destroyed by an act of God”.

From an aerial view, the Termites were an invisible society, who taught their offspring what to do when their teeth developed.

“Son”, Termophilus once said to his older child, “this world is so mean that you have to become very aggressive lf you want to make lt in life. The law here is that the strongest, the one with the biggest and sharpest teeth, is the one to survive."

Termin, the little termite, couldn't quite understand what his father was trying to tell him. But, full of termitic pride, he would gradually realize that 1 f he didn't sharpen his teeth and sight, he would lose his wood to a neighbor who had both.

lt wasn't necessarily true that to become a Termite one would have to be born gnawing. One had to learn to gnaw and become a Termite. lt was the Prevailing philosophy of the times. To reach a high status among all termites, Termin would have to apply himself to the boring task of gnawing and gnawing and gnawing all day long. He had to be mindful that in gnawing he was not only feeding himself, but also playing an important function in his own life and in the life of any living bug, that of asserting his existence. He could be certain then he was a Termite.

Granted -Termin would grow up to understand- he was only one amidst the crowd, but one who struggled for individuality and who lived in constant rivalry with the members of the termiterium.

Eventually he'd age accepting its living pattern: as a member of a termiterium one had to be born, grow up, reproduce and gnaw until the end of one's life. Sometimes a termite, as it had happened to Termonides his grandfather, would accidentally end his mission in life before its time. For a termite to lose his teeth meant automatic condemnation to death and starvation. The secrets of the prolongation of life were unknown to this Termitic society. A golden rule was that when a termite died there was more wood left for others.

Many books had bend written by intellectual termites such as Termistocles and Aristermicus to explain termites' most vital functions. These books told of many specialties. There were many well known editions including the philosophical essays of the great Termaes, a wise termite whose intelligent gnawing was responsible for many empty shelves in the libraries. His main book “Phenomena of the Small-Mouthed Termites” became the handbook of any decent termite.

Other successful books were written by more popular termites such as Woody Termite. “Underdeveloped Termites,” a manual of Termite social principles, and “Sex and the Termite, “became all-time bestsellers. Censors and moralist termites considered them an attempt against termitic nature. At first, they prohibited its consumption, only to finally gnaw the books themselves.

Termin would in turn send his child to school so he could learn how to bite, how to chew, how to gnaw and how to make good use of his teeth in all possible ways so he could understand his traditions. An excessive number of ignorant Termites were not desirable In this civilization. Termite teachers were obliged to guide their students by the treatise on how to open and close their jaws and get bigger chunks of wood when they gnawed. What mattered, more than anything, was who could cat the biggest piece and who could accumulate more wood. This gave a termite prestige in its social surrounding. An average termite was expected to fulfill these goals so he might succeed in life.

There existed a concept of a generous God who provided the species with an unlimited supply of tables, chairs and a delicious variety of oak and maple furniture as well as walls and ceilings of tasty mahogany. Termael, a progressive termite, studied the functions of this mysterious God and arrived at the conclusion that this God had to be a bigger creature of a much better breed than the Termites.

A group of termites led by Terminia united to preach that the ideal society would be one where all termites would cat only what they needed to live, neither a piece more nor a piece less than their fellow termites. The new doctrine promoted a reasonable society where, if there was only one table for all, it would be for all to share. Incredibly enough, there was a handful of well-to-do termites more experienced in their gnawing skills, who claimed that it wasn't the same for a termite to be born an oak crib as on a bamboo floor. They were advised to maintain the present economic pattern, otherwise the social equilibrium of the termites would crumble. There was no way to help the weak-toothed termites.

The Termite Race continued to try to organize itself so it could survive comfortably. They wrote laws to subdue the most ignorant members, those who brought social unrest and constant problems. The Termites in charge of enforcing the laws also came up with legislation to protect and immunize themselves against their own laws.

Termuse, a famous scientist, observed that termites multiplied in such a careless way that eventually they would have to see the fall of civilization as a self-fulfilling prophesy. A termite with common sense, Termuse suggested that there was an obvious problem and she boldly proclaimed:

“My fellow Termites, as you all well know, we gnaw wood, and there are a lot of scientific approaches to the subject. Our mission is to gnaw wood. We feed from it. Millions of books have been written telling us about ¡t, instructing us to do it better, how not to do it and so forth. There are experts on the art of gnawing everywhere, but nobody has questioned what will happen when we run out of wood!”

The analytical question of this thoughtful termite caused a controversy among listeners.

“She is paranoid,” said one.

“Naughty termite,” some commented.

“She is a troublemaking activist,” they agreed.

Termite Dust, a noted news termite, wrote about this “materialistic termite” and said they shouldn’t pay attention to whatever nonsense she was spreading.

The doubt about a decadent society pervaded the mind and doings of Terminael, who exposed his ideas in lectures and articles, essays and books.

“Termites of the world! Our wood reserves are growing exhaust and we keep gnawing relentlessly. From now on we will have to start rationing...”

He hadn't finished his speech when a rain of thousands of sawdust balls buried him alive.

Followers of this new prophet took more seriously the warning. They set an example of sacrifice and stopped their gnawing for an hour a day. The others, who found more wood available, simply opened their faucets wider and went on gnawing all the wood in sight.

“There has to be away to control our selves” protested the environmentalist Termites.

Adding to the problems of survival, innumerable termites continued to be born by the minute. Some one announced that the only solution to the situation was birth control.

The contraceptive methods were unsuccessful since those who didn't stop giving birth compensated in numbers for the ones who had already stopped. The phenomenon was explained as a social crisis combined with dysfunctional sexuality.

A termiterium governing organism proposed that the only solution left was to declare war on the termites of Oak Closet since they appeared to have plenty of wood. The winners could expel the losers, thus profiting from their reserves. Those Termites who protested were quieted by the multitude. They argued they were freeing the termiterium from excessive population by means of war and also feeding those termites who had begun to starve. Each party defended its viewpoint with equal passion.

Termites wasted huge amounts of wood manufacturing weapons for offense and defense.

“lf we can't find a prompt solution we will have to feed on our own excrement,” announced the emergency organism. This would have been a very practical idea, if it hadn't been for termites who managed to cheat. Those who sacrificed and ate their own sawdust saw the cheaters stealing wood from the reserves.

“The mission of the termites is being endangered,” said Twiggy Termite, a new leader. “Our mission on this termiterium is nobler than just gnawing and corroding wood to feed ourselves! Each termite should contribute to civilization with its work, its struggle and its sacrifice! Each hole you make, each passageway, each path, each tunnel and aisle is our trademark and that of our generation. They are our achievements and they mark our pace towards the future. Each and every termite must forget his own personal interests and work for the benefit of the society in which he lives.”

Followers as well as enemies became so excited by Twiggy Termite’s word that countless riots preceded a revolution. Chaos erupted in the termiterium. The gnawing stopped completely and a battle for survival ensued.

They fought to death for the shrinking space. There was almost no wood left to gnaw and even less to stand on. A termite named Noak demanded that they build spaceships out of the last pieces of wood. A state of emergency was declared.

When wood started cracking, a torrential rain began, thus upsetting the salvage work. Tunnels and channels were inundated and termites drowned.

“A flood, a flood! God punishes us”, said a repentant Termite.

Noak and some other termites had already started to board the spaceships built in a hurry. Others managed to reach the periphery but were engulfed in the vacuum. Most Termites perished In the great flood caused by divine wrath.

The ancient history of the survivor termites, recorded in the Book of Noak, tells of “a race of immoral and foolish termites who perished during a flood.'

But had the termites had enough vision, they would have been able to see the huge hands of the exterminator. He held the immense metallic tank and a hose, pressing to release the white astringent liquid, which seeped throughout the tunnels, channels and pathways built during so many centuries of civilization.

Unfortunately, this piece of information is exactly what the few survivors who arrived at the nearby termiterium to begin anew the mission of the Termites were missing in their scrolls.

1976