A Bit Beyond Belief Story 1

The Vardøger

The New York City Subway is a collection of sardine cans filled with people. A (sometimes) reliable form of public transportation that carries its contents to a variety of destinations.

But sometimes, when the sardine cans aren’t stuffed full, the New York City Subway becomes something… else.

When you ride the train without the distraction of other passengers you can fully realize what is happening around you- and to you. You close your eyes and realize that you’re hurtling down dark tunnels dug by men long dead, traveling under ground- sometimes even under water- passing through a rich history that just keeps on going- riding the rails with the ghosts of commuters-past who used to go the same way you are now going.

Closing your eyes on the subway can be an eye-opening experience.

Of all the trains in the MTA I frequent the 5 train the most. On this route there is a long-ish gap between Franklin and Atlantic Avenue where the train runs express and skips three stops.

This gap can feel like 3 minutes or like 13 minutes depending on the day and your mental state.

It was on this stretch of track at 2:35pm on a Monday that the subway became that something… else. At this time of day- before the schools let out and after the lunch rush- you can enjoy a quiet and meditative ride. Train cars are quiet and mostly empty and it’s easy to lose yourself in the solace of your headphones. I closed my eyes and let my body be flown over the tracks by the graciousness of public transportation.

“Atlantic Avenue Barclay’s Center,” said the robotic voice from above. I opened my eyes to see the brightly lit and sparsely populated train platform of Atlantic Avenue through the open doors. Usually bustling, this time of day it was quiet save for a few older women with their shopping bags.

I relaxed knowing that I had plenty of time before my mid-Manhattan final destination. I closed my eyes as the subway closed its doors. The train picked up speed and once again I was flying. One song on my headphones later, I heard a familiar voice.

“Atlantic Avenue Barclay’s Center,” said the robotic voice from above.

“What?” I said aloud, to no one. “We just went through this stop…” I stared at the same menagerie of people and shopping bags that I saw on the Atlantic Avenue platform the first time we came through.

The subway doors closed and my heart skipped a beat. My calm in the quiet of the train car quickly turned to fear and confusion.

How can a train car go backwards without actually going backwards???

What just happened???

Am I imagining this???

I went into hyper-alert mode. I kept my eyes open lest I zone out and find myself stopping at Atlantic Avenue again… and again. Fortunately, the train made all of its regularly scheduled stops and I began to relax.

It was just a glitch- a train malfunction. No biggie. Happens all the time. I closed my eyes, trusting the subway to safely carry my body away once more.

— — —

When I got off the train in Manhattan I headed for a coffee shop to wake up a bit. Perhaps I had dozed off on the train and that’s why I was confused about how many times I actually went through Atlantic Avenue…

I smiled at the barista- my harbinger of caffeine- and ordered something huge and caramel and caffeiney. The barista just stared, slack jawed at me.

“But you were just here- you just ordered this,” she said with a strange mix of confidence and confusion.

She sounded pretty confident through her confusion so I began to doubt myself.

Maybe I WAS already just there? But wait…

“If I just ordered this why would I order it again?” I asked, genuinely wondering.

“I dunno,” she replied.

“I dunno either.”

Then I remembered the train glitch and my brain began to tailspin.

Was there a version of myself in another dimension/on another timeline who only went through Atlantic Avenue once and was able to arrive to the same coffee shop just moments before me?

Am I now on an alternate time-line?

Or do white girls just look alike when they order giant caramel coffee drinks?

I shook off my confusion, drank my coffee, and went on with my day.

— — —

Maybe the first appearance of me in that coffee shop was my Vardøger- who was just being helpful by trying to order a coffee for the real me.

Maybe there is no other dimension/timeline that opened up below Atlantic Avenue that Monday afternoon.

Maybe I don’t look like all the other white girls who like sweet caffeinated caramel drinks.

I’m still not sure how to explain what happened that day, but I do know that now I keep my eyes open on that long hypnotic stretch of track between Franklin and Atlantic Avenue. Because I’m afraid to experience anything… else.

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