These are not stories.

Tony struggled to push his way through the crowd. There were so many of them, pushing upstream, salmon on their way to the farms where they would be packaged and sent upstate to be devoured by the rich. Or was he the salmon, swimming upstream, struggling, doing everything the difficult way? Where is the bear to snatch him out of the concrete river and put him out of his misery?

He needed his Starbucks blueberry muffin and small—he refuses to call it tall—Pike. He needed his morning fuel. The line was incredibly long. Like it always is. He never learns. And it never matters which of the Starbucks he goes to. There are three of them next to each other, ten in total in a one-corner-of-his-block radius. They’re all always crowded. The other salmon need their morning fuel.

He bumps against this person staring at their phone and against that person looking backward. He zips this way and that, looking for any opening. He’s trying not to spill his coffee. It would not look good walking into an interview with a large brown stain on his white shirt. Why did he wear the white shirt? It was bound to attract trouble. Like every morning.

Right on cue, a large man pummels through the crowd, knocking salmon out of his way left and right. And the large man stares right through him. Tony is able to hold onto the coffee cup. But the lid pops off, and the coffee spills all over his shirt and the ground around him. He’s left holding an empty cup.

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” the large man yells, not even stopping, as he continues moving through the crowd.

Tony’s a nice guy, and he wants to clean up this mess. Salmon are swimming past and slipping in the mess, shooting him dirty looks, muttering under their breaths about what a dick he is for making a mess and getting in their way. Doesn’t he know they have slaughter farms to get to? But he hears the draaaggg CLUNK draaaggg CLUCK of the train above him. It has to be his train. He has about thirty seconds to make a mad dash.

With “‘scuse me”s and “sorry”s, he powers his way through the crowd. Which turnstyle? He goes for the nearest one, and a tourist slips in front of him. They are unable to swipe their metrocard properly. He moves over one turnstyle, and a family of five is making their way through from the other side. He hears the beeping siren of an open emergency gate. Some sweet angel of a deviant, law-breaking citizen has given him the secret access. He swoops in right before the gate closes. He runs as fast as his tired salmon legs can run, blueberry muffin and empty coffee cup in hand. He leaps down the never-ending stairwell, five steps at a time. The salmon squeeze onto the train and stare at this madman rushing toward them. I hope he doesn’t make it, they all think to themselves.

“Hold the door,” he screams. But no one holds it. Every fish for themselves. The door is closing and he has just enough time to jab his arm through the opening. But it doesn’t open. Why would it? Instant panic, Tony realizes he’d rather show up to the interview late than missing an arm. He pulls his arm out, dropping the coffee cup on the floor of the train. The door closes, and the train moves forward.

Godspeed, empty coffee cup.

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