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"That's your choice," the man says. "And a perfectly fine one." Ben doesn't look at the man—doesn't want the eye contact—but he can almost picture him exactly. Plaid shirt. Tan jacket. Jeans over a pair of well-worn boots. "But you came to the subway first. You going to let it beat you?"

"It's not beating me." Ben spits the words, the flush of embarrassment pushing them out fast and angry.

"Sure it is," the man says, his tone unrattled, hand still firm on Ben's shoulder.

There's movement, like he's pulling something from a pocket, and for a brief moment Ben thinks that it's a blade. That this is how he goes out: shanked by a country singer outside the New York subway. "Might not know exactly what you're going through," the man says, "but I recognize it."

Ben looks down. The man's other hand is right there in front of him, held out at chest height, a single poker chip lying like an offering in the center of his palm. Looking a little closer, he sees what is written on the chip, three words forming the sides of a triangle. Unity, Recovery, Service. It's an AA chip, and the XV that stands bold on the face is  there to show that the holder is fifteen years sober.

Ben wonders what kind of drunk the man could have been: the quiet type that hides it, with bottles in the toilet tank or taped under the workbench; or maybe something worse, constantly on the knife-edge, the instinct to violence honed keen by whatever he'd been drinking that day. There are only a handful of reasons to help a stranger out, and in Ben's experience the majority are acts of penance.

"You think I need help?"

"We all need help, son." The hand closes over the chip, whisks it away to be deposited back in whatever sacred pocket produced it. "But right now? It's your call."

Ben almost says something sarcastic about the fridge magnet motivational, but the weight of the man's hand holds it in check.

"You can take the bus," he says. "But if you do, then that's your fear making the choice for you." He laughs, low and throaty. "And who the fuck takes the bus, anyway? The bus is for crazies."

He gives Ben's shoulder a fatherly shake—go get 'em, tiger--and then the pressure is gone. As Ben turns to look at him the man is already past and on his way down the steps: broad shouldered, dark brown hair—too dark to be anything other than dye—thinning at the crown, his age showing in the cautious way he finds each step. Just as Ben guessed, he's wearing a tan jacket and denim jeans, but the boots are missing.

Instead, he's got on a pair of chunky faux-leather shoes. The kind of orthopedics you'd find advertised in a magazine aimed at retirees, built with the blunt functionality of a ball-peen hammer, available for the low, low price of forty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents for the pair, no postage required.

Ben wonders what it must have been like to find yourself sober at retirement age, and what it must have taken to stay that way.

Fifteen years. It feels like fate to share that number with him. Like Ben was meant to meet him, hear what he had to say.

That he was meant to take the subway.

Ben lightens his grip on the railing and takes a single step down toward the subway entrance, his left foot dropping like a dead weight as it drags in the wake of the right.

The man was wrong. The first step isn't hard at all. The second one, the one that comes after you commit yourself to and wake up to the fact that now you're going to have to follow through: that one is the real son of a bitch.

He takes the rest of the steps in a rush, tripping over his own feet, not giving himself the chance to think about anything other than keeping his balance. Before he can even start to panic, he's already there: the void at the bottom of the steps climbs in his vision like a wave crowding against a coastal shelf, impossibly tall and unavoidable and his heart does a jackrabbit leap in his chest—

And before the fear can seize hold of him, he's through.

Ben calms down once he's inside the subway station, because everything about the subway is designed to calm people down. There's nothing rational about it otherwise. Volunteering to make your way down a hundred feet below street level and climb inside a metal tube; to feel the whole thing shudder and jolt on a stop-start journey under a hundred million tons of city overhead. You'd have to be insane.

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Today's Reading

"That's your choice," the man says. "And a perfectly fine one." Ben doesn't look at the man—doesn't want the eye contact—but he can almost picture him exactly. Plaid shirt. Tan jacket. Jeans over a pair of well-worn boots. "But you came to the subway first. You going to let it beat you?"

"It's not beating me." Ben spits the words, the flush of embarrassment pushing them out fast and angry.

"Sure it is," the man says, his tone unrattled, hand still firm on Ben's shoulder.

There's movement, like he's pulling something from a pocket, and for a brief moment Ben thinks that it's a blade. That this is how he goes out: shanked by a country singer outside the New York subway. "Might not know exactly what you're going through," the man says, "but I recognize it."

Ben looks down. The man's other hand is right there in front of him, held out at chest height, a single poker chip lying like an offering in the center of his palm. Looking a little closer, he sees what is written on the chip, three words forming the sides of a triangle. Unity, Recovery, Service. It's an AA chip, and the XV that stands bold on the face is  there to show that the holder is fifteen years sober.

Ben wonders what kind of drunk the man could have been: the quiet type that hides it, with bottles in the toilet tank or taped under the workbench; or maybe something worse, constantly on the knife-edge, the instinct to violence honed keen by whatever he'd been drinking that day. There are only a handful of reasons to help a stranger out, and in Ben's experience the majority are acts of penance.

"You think I need help?"

"We all need help, son." The hand closes over the chip, whisks it away to be deposited back in whatever sacred pocket produced it. "But right now? It's your call."

Ben almost says something sarcastic about the fridge magnet motivational, but the weight of the man's hand holds it in check.

"You can take the bus," he says. "But if you do, then that's your fear making the choice for you." He laughs, low and throaty. "And who the fuck takes the bus, anyway? The bus is for crazies."

He gives Ben's shoulder a fatherly shake—go get 'em, tiger--and then the pressure is gone. As Ben turns to look at him the man is already past and on his way down the steps: broad shouldered, dark brown hair—too dark to be anything other than dye—thinning at the crown, his age showing in the cautious way he finds each step. Just as Ben guessed, he's wearing a tan jacket and denim jeans, but the boots are missing.

Instead, he's got on a pair of chunky faux-leather shoes. The kind of orthopedics you'd find advertised in a magazine aimed at retirees, built with the blunt functionality of a ball-peen hammer, available for the low, low price of forty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents for the pair, no postage required.

Ben wonders what it must have been like to find yourself sober at retirement age, and what it must have taken to stay that way.

Fifteen years. It feels like fate to share that number with him. Like Ben was meant to meet him, hear what he had to say.

That he was meant to take the subway.

Ben lightens his grip on the railing and takes a single step down toward the subway entrance, his left foot dropping like a dead weight as it drags in the wake of the right.

The man was wrong. The first step isn't hard at all. The second one, the one that comes after you commit yourself to and wake up to the fact that now you're going to have to follow through: that one is the real son of a bitch.

He takes the rest of the steps in a rush, tripping over his own feet, not giving himself the chance to think about anything other than keeping his balance. Before he can even start to panic, he's already there: the void at the bottom of the steps climbs in his vision like a wave crowding against a coastal shelf, impossibly tall and unavoidable and his heart does a jackrabbit leap in his chest—

And before the fear can seize hold of him, he's through.

Ben calms down once he's inside the subway station, because everything about the subway is designed to calm people down. There's nothing rational about it otherwise. Volunteering to make your way down a hundred feet below street level and climb inside a metal tube; to feel the whole thing shudder and jolt on a stop-start journey under a hundred million tons of city overhead. You'd have to be insane.

What our readers think...