Last night’s shift was an eventful one.
An anonymous tip led me to a subway car on the Green Line. Last time I took the Green Line, a door fell off mid-transit. I’m starting to think riding that piece of shit is the most dangerous part of my job.
I hopped on at Copley and immediately recognized Will Chen, a guy I went to highschool with. We were always friendly and hung out at the same parties, but were never what you would call “homies”. When you’ve lived in the city long enough, you start bumping into familiar faces, ghosts from the past that pop up when you least expect it.
I tried to get Will’s attention to see if he knew anything of the reports, but he was distracted, fixated on something inside the train, and would not remove his gaze from it. He was staring at the front end of the car, where the passengers tapered off into a semi-circle, as if to avoid a pool of urine, a pile of vomit, or some other miscellaneous substrate one might find on an MBTA train.
Neither piss nor puke, the thing at the front end of the car was a man. “That’s Bug,” Will said, his voice shaky. As I looked over at Bug, I was met by what I can only describe as a crackhead Steve Buscemi mixed with Gollum. Bug stared back at me with a soul-sucking scowl. He had only one eye, the other missing from its socket, and wore a filthy overcoat full of rips and stains.
Passengers were avoiding eye contact with Bug at all costs, not wanting to fall prey to his vicious sneer. Upon closer look, I realized Bug had retrofitted the entire front end of the car into his own little disgusting den. There was a rusty refrigerator in the corner, food scattered across the seats and a heavily soiled mattress on the floor. I braced myself, then took a few steps closer as the train snaked through the dark, winding, rat-infested tunnels.
This was undoubtedly the subject I was looking for. Apparently, Bug had been harassing passengers on the train, and things had escalated towards assault when the tip was called in. This physical aggression was surprising, given his outward appearance of an old, feeble man who would struggle to lift a ten-pound weight. I had encountered strangers things before, so I approached with caution.
By the time I reached Bug face-to-face, nearly everyone had shifted their attention towards us. “What’s your name?” I asked, trying not to get lost in his contorted face. “What is your name, sir?” I repeated, this time with more authority. Bug hissed back at me. It was immediately clear there would be no productive interaction between us. I explained to him that it was against the law to nest on the T, and that all of his filthy belongings would be disposed of. The refrigerator was full-sized and would require a city crew to haul out of there. I have no clue how Bug dragged it in there in the first place.
Before I had the chance to remove Bug at Kenmore, he jolted towards the door, pried it open with his gangly hands, then leapt out of the moving car. We sent a crew into the tunnel the next morning, but there was not a trace of him to be found. We placed Bug on our watchlist and sent out a warning cable to the partners.
That same night, Bug appeared in my dream. He quoted some biblical text, ripped both of my arms off, then went on a rampage throughout the city.
I get that familiar, unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I recall Bug's ugly mug. I hope to God he doesn't survive the winter.