Purgatorio

The late night slow-down on the L train between 1st and Bedford is, for me, purgatorial. The frustrating agony is so great that I feel that I'm atoning for some atrocious sin I've committed in the course of the day, probably something in the vein of judging an innocent for "crimes" against fashion, body mass index, and/or common sense. I liken the feeling to that shuddering, teeth-clenching grating sensation you suffer when finger-nails are dragged across a chalkboard.

Occasionally, in the midst of one of these self-flagellating reveries, I'll catch sight of an MTA worker in the tunnel pressed up against the wall as the train dribbles by, and I'll snap out of it. Every time a train goes by they have to stop their work, press up against a wall and hope not to get hit or fall on the dreaded, fatal third rail. Their experience, if I may be so bold as to impose, is more like a hell than a purgatory, or rather should I say Hades, with a hint of Sisyphusness?