It was a cold winter day and the train was overheated. The F was running more slowly than usual, pausing between stops, and the number of people far exceeded the average person’s cubic feet of airspace needed for their patience to survive. The car was pretty quiet, perhaps the result of the uncomfortable conditions, or out of frustration, or maybe just the fact that it was the end of the day and everyone was really tired.
The sound crept into audibility slowly. It was almost as though someone had snuck a record player onto the train and gradually turned the volume knob up. It rose from the mass of disgruntled passengers and then abruptly stopped. People looked over their shoulders and then, just as we cast our eyes back down to the dirty floor, it began again. The smooth, steady tenor voice filtered through us- a beautiful sound yet the source was nearly impossible to identify. For ten minutes, as the train sat somewhere under the East River, the voice dissipated and surfaced, and finally, when the doors opened at York Street and people stepped aside, the singer was revealed: a short, balding, slightly odd looking man with a nervous smile. More passengers piled in at Jay Street and as soon as he was hidden by people, the short bursts of melodic opera began once more.
Anyone else have a similar tale?