I taught them how to put coins into the violinist's case open on the tunnel floor. I taught them how to put coins into the drummer's empty mayonnaise bucket, into the flautist's black sack. The violinist played facing the wall - one of those New York mysteries. Maybe he was just tuning up, maybe - something else, something wrong. He heard the clink of dimes and nodded a thank you over his shoulder. The little blonde girl didn't see him nod; she was walking away shoulders hunched. She is my niece, just off the plane from Arizona.

On the "A" train from JFK I told my older sister, "We're in Brooklyn now." The girls face lit up. Brooklyn is her name. "You can get whatever you want here for free, it's your town," I said, and she grinned and hunched up her shoulders, shy.

I had taken them up to the front car to show them the innards of the city: three blond kids, one at a time. It was their first time on the subway, and they took to it right away. At first they sat, eating pretzels or cheez 'n crackers with me. I was famished and had only a buck something in quarters and dimes by the time I met them at the airport. They called me 'uncle' so easily I wasn't shy asking them for their snacks; they were unsurprised that a grown man would ask for their food. After a bit they were swinging on the poles the way a half-empty car makes one want to.

"I'm Tarzan," said Kellen, the oldest. I asked him if he'd really want to wear fur undies on the subway.

I took them up one by one, six trips past the same people. I myself was excited to pull open the heavy doors and step across the gap - rails screeching below. Maddie, the littlest, wanted me to lift her across. But the other two were game, and jumped. They even tried pushing open the door to the next car themselves, letting go of my hand and straining, rails screeching below. I put their noses to the front window.

"See that yellow light? See it turn green? That's a signal," I said. I pointed out the graffiti on the walls. They saw lighted platforms come up out of medieval dimness, and I said, "It's fun, huh?"

"Uh-huh," each one said.

I told Kellen how workers and commuters were killed on the tracks. I told him when we were under the East River. I wanted them to be a little scared: isn't that how they will remember? When Kellen and I crossed the gap the screaming was all around. Even I was shaken. The two cars we straddled bucked hard. He'll remember.

At Howards Beach I told them about the big rats and Maddie, nose to the glass in front, asked me again, "Where's the rats?" I told her they were scared of the train, hiding. I had to hold her up to see out. A young guy already there moved aside for us. He smiled at her. She's a cartoon character, a doll with eyes that look up, somehow proportioned to make people smile. What it is about her face I can't put my finger on.

Those kids wanted to see a rat, and I sure wanted to show them one. It was 10:45 pm on the Times Square "2/3" platform. The 15 minutes there waiting we didn't spy a one. But they were ready for anything. They were spring-set. They bounded up the steps behind me to see two men pounding deafeningly on plastic buckets. Going back to the platform they veered confidently off the wrong way. They grabbed up dead Metro cards, and told each other about it. They thought nothing of contamination. They were infectious.

For the last time their mom and I stirred them from their swaying, rocking ride. They shouldered their assigned bags. "The next stop is one hundred and tenth street," came the Ken-doll voice of the recorded announcement. In the long tunnel under the park the kids had finally started to droop. Even kids on their first ride sooner or later will give in and be lulled.

Not long from now and they won't hug me unless they're told. But they'll remember riding the "A" train. My name will be stuck to the memory. Not long and Britney Spears will have given way to some edgier idol they'll want to own or be and we'll realize we don't know each other. But the memory will have dried to our skin like a shiny old dragonfly wing that won't shake off after a rain.