The bitter cold of that January afternoon had penetrated even my P-coat with its turned up collar covering the tops of my ears. I would have thought the argument for wearing your hair long could be that it kept your head warm. It didn't pass muster on that very cold day. Tugging at the requisite scarf that those pre-Woodstock days demanded from one who was engaged in the arts tighter around my collar, I stepped into the warmth and shelter of the underground subway station. Soon the train would pull into that station and, if I was lucky, it would be one of the old F trains. The old ones were designed with their cushioned seats at perpendicular angles to each other thus enabling one to put his, or her if she wore pants or was truly daring, feet up across the benches, if the car was sparsely populated. Then you could curl up and shut your eyes for a good stretch between 135^th Street. That's where the High School of Music and Art was back then, nestled among the City College campus, and midtown Manhattan. From midtown, the train would pick up the hordes that used the Penn Station exit as a transit point between the various lines that fed the city. If it started to pack up, the books and the homework came out. By the time the light from the Manhattan Bridge crossing the East River broke through the dark windows signalling our emergence from the underground I was snug, warm, and at home amongst the rabble that made up a New York City day. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the wheels riding against the rails soon gave way to symphonic syncopations dancing in my head, and I was fast asleep.

When I awoke, it was dark; it was quiet; it was empty; I was scared.

I ran up and down the train cars in a panic, searching for someone, something that could account for my situation. I could not fathom how the F train, my reliable old boat that carried me over the River Styx that often is this city every day, could abandon me in such a remote, dark, and lifeless place. Yet here I was, in the bowels of the city, under where I could not guess.

It was about that time that I encountered a transit authority police officer who assured me the train had just stopped off in an underground roundhouse close to my own and that we would be off shortly. With a great sigh of relief my consternation was abated and I made my way to the front car to peer out the window. There I witnessed men who toiled daily in the dark world of the subways. Making sure my F train's faux-rattan seat covers did not fray too badly to scratch, that its wheels remained greased and limber enough to climb out of its underground into the sunlight of the el over McDonald Avenue, and that its engines kept their purr. Before I knew it, I was delivered safely back into the world I occupied. The snow had begun to fall while my sojourn in the dark world had occurred. It now lay upon the city like a blanket exuding peace and quiet. The streetlights glimmered in the falling snow. Tugging once more at the scarf judiciously wrapped about my collar, all warmed and ready to face the bitter January cold, I bid the F a good night and until tomorrow walked off into the night the better for that brief moment of intimacy shared with the F train and those who toiled to keep it running.

Gilles Lamarche lives in Oakland Park, Florida.