The Silver Man

by Kathleen Vestuto   

I was running late anyway.  This did not help. 

“La-dees and-a gen-tel-men,” the voice announced with irritating pedantry, “the last stop, on this train, will be Brooklyn Bridge, City Hall…”

Damn.  I’d have to change to the 4, if there was one.  I’d only been at my job a couple of months, and couldn’t afford to waste a lame subway excuse.  I might need it sometime when I had no excuse.

Herding toward the 4 at City Hall with the other disgruntleds, I caught a break.  A downtown train was just rumbling into the station.  I shuffled toward the end of the platform when something brilliant flashed by in one of the windows.  An unnatural aura was radiating from a center car.  I jostled back and hopped on the train toward the light.

It was a silver man.

He wasn’t just dressed in silver; he was silver.  His face had been painted or sprayed with some sort of metallic makeup that caught the overhead light with a glittery blush.  His eyes were hidden by silver goggles; his hands by silver gloves; his silver pageboy crowned with a silver top hat.  This was a heavy metal Willy Wonka with just a dash of Jack Haley and a Red Bull can.

I grabbed a pole to the right of where he was seated, impassive and oblivious.  Or not; with that granite jaw and goggles, it was impossible to tell if he was returning the stares.

Passengers glanced at him fearfully from behind their Posts.  Some squinted as if unable to peg him into any known category.  Others glowered in judgment.  That was absurd.  The Silver Man would not be the new IT guy at Goldman Sachs.

I studied his expressionless face.  It seemed to soften.

The woman next to him stood, and I grabbed her spot. 

I was sitting next to the Silver Man. 

We did not acknowledge one another. We had a silent understanding; an unknown known. 

I knew he knew I knew he would have a day of delight.  He would entertain.  People would see him and smile and give him money.  They’d tilt their heads away from their cell phones and forget what they were talking about.  They’d switch from anxiety to awe as if making an unexpectedly fortuitous train change.  The Silver Man would provide distraction and parry disdain.  He’d be peculiar and funny and recognizably derivative in a way children would appreciate; they would clap for him and wave goodbye and tell their friends about him. 

We got off at Bowling Green, the Silver Man and I. We strode together up the platform steps.  I held the station door open for him.  He didn’t thank me. I didn’t expect him to.  He knew I had too much respect for him for that.

I crossed Broadway and turned around.  It was a gorgeous day.  The Silver Man, headed toward Battery Park, glistened mercurially in the sun.

Kathleen Vestuto has been a NYC subway rider for more than twenty years. She is a former actor currently working as a coordinator for a downtown non-profit organization. She has a BA in English, concentration in writing, from Hunter College, and is processing her first collection of short stories.