The Awkward Moment

The Gestapo master gets carelessly on the second level train. There is only standing room. He is the only rider on this train in uniform. Other travelers in the compartment shuffle sideways so that he has his own space, more space than anyone else. He holds onto the scarred aluminum passenger stabilization bar with only one hand, the other hand and arm obediently down at his side. Those nearest him look to the floor, where small candy wrappers are scurrying about unaided against the ribbed inauthentic mat. Passengers farther away can look at him: quick glances, viewing him in parts to reassemble later in storytelling to the hushed family around the under-appreciated kitchen table. He looks about at last, knowing he is making other riders crawl with unwanted expectations. He knows how he affects people, how even his parents have feared him since he passed his Gestapo entrance exam, completed the physical training, the ideological indoctrination, took his ceremonial dip naked in the winter Hudson river, toured with his graduating class on the appreciation tour around New York state. He leans unthreateningly over to the unfortunate man nearest on his left and says, “Yes, losing sucks, but the Nicks get to go on to the next game.”