It was eight a.m. this morning when I noticed the vagrant couple covered by a gray blanket. They were sitting in the two-seater near the doors enjoying a meal of Wise potato chips-turned out those corn chips were actually potato chips. That was an easy mistake. If you had been awake for only under an hour and the caffeine jolt had not hit your nerve endings yet, you might have made it, too.

Like most New Yorkers, I am a drug addict. The warm paper cup of Columbian guides me and reassures me that the fog of morning is only temporary. It will soon be replaced by a jittery alertness wherein the subtle nuances of corn chip and potato chip are easily deciphered. A preacher suddenly startled me out of my thoughts of assorted snack foods, almost causing me to spill the contents of my cup onto the floor and the lap of the guy sitting next to me. "Hell!" shouted the preacher. "Hell!" Tall, thin, scraggly hair and unshaven, he carried a hardcover book in bad condition, sometimes pumping the air with it emphatically. He moved with agility and energy, filled with a sense of purpose.

Part of me envied that intensity first thing in the morning. Sadly, I was not overcome with the same tenacious, wild excitement to get to my windowless office and answer e-mails about recent font conflicts. Other passengers, equally comatose compared to this man's unbridled emotion, only shifted in their seats or turned magazine pages. As the train sped through a tunnel, his message echoed throughout the car, "Beware! He's right here! He's here with us!" Obviously, he was talking about The Devil.

I found myself missing the Ipod I don't own yet. I am the only one left on this vast island without those white earphones. I'm still not part of the widest exclusive community ever to exist in history. Silhouetted dancers, best friends of Bono, I could see them all laughing at me-an outcast, doomed to be at the mercy of auditory assaults. I cursed my fate as an Ipod outsider when the man holding the Bible moved to stand in front of me to let me know that we were all going to Hell.

Curiously, no one on the train reacted to this loud, stormy intrusion on their morning. Most likely, they do not regard this as anything unusual or unexpected. We New Yorkers see hundreds of performers a day: preachers, musicians, boys with M&M boxes, Asian women with batteries and flashing key-chains.... Our preacher fit right in. This was particularly true since the subways of New York City would make a fantastic home for The Devil. Beelzebub. Lord of the Flies. I imagine the Prince of Darkness happily setting up shop on the E train.

The subway is, in many ways, home to a variety of eclectic extremes. Whatever condition exists aboveground often becomes more intense below.  For example, as you wait for a cross-town L the temperature could be cold, bitter and mocking on a fierce January night. Or, you might find yourself waiting for an F train on a summer afternoon in August and the air becomes so thick and hot you wonder if you might keel over and faint. Although, the mere thought of coming that close to the platform pavement (which you know sometimes alternately serves as a toilet), will force you to remain conscious and upright.

And while in this arctic cold or hellish heat, the preachers of the underground choose to disseminate messages that are neither modest nor mild. You will not find them announcing the new spring line from Marc Jacobs. No: they talk about Jesus or the Devil; either you are going to Heaven or you are going to Hell. There is no in-between, no compromise. The subway might feel like purgatory, but it preaches extremes. It is a daily test of survival, each man for himself on this battleground.  A hysterical maze of crowds and speed and filth; loud and crass, the experience can leave one dazed for hours upon emerging from the depths below. 

Despite my lack of Ipod, however, this morning was different. Today I felt safer, protected behind a new psychological barrier-my new sunglasses. For only five bucks in Chinatown, these red-tinted, oval lenses are now one of my most treasured possessions. I intentionally left them on today as I descended the dark stairway into the shadowy corridors of the station.

My friends make fun of my obsession with sunglasses. Yes, I now own over 25 pairs. This might seem excessive to some people. But sunglasses are not mere fashion accessories, or expressions of being out too late the night before. Sunglasses do not only shield us from the sun.  They guard us from things no one deserves to face: bright, clinical lighting on a subway car, dingy platforms, the Devil walking among us. Without my sunglasses I would be staring directly into the belly of the beast.

The preacher moved on to the next car, perhaps to save more souls or to startle them out of their pre-caffeine stupors. While the train became quickly stuffed with people at the 34th street station, shoving and cramming their way in, I felt invincible against all those briefcases, bright lights, and serious faces. I thanked the gods of sunglasses (probably pagan) for the abundance of street-sellers on so many corners, and their multicolored lenses from which we choose our armor.

Those lenses maintain us, protect us. I am untouched by the vulgar mass of individuals with lines on their foreheads, pissed off with routine and train conductors. My new barrier was like a sensitive friend shielding me from the truth. I got some disapproving looks, but hell, I kept them on. I was not yet ready for the corn chip reality beyond my rose-colored glasses.

 Sarah Maya Gubkin is a writer and graphic designer living in the West Village. Her website www.saramayadesign.com is coming soon.