Flickering fluorescent lights, screeching metal, and the reserved silence of commuters determined to ignore each other filled the subway car with the typical noon anxiety of New York City. But a strange type of silence descended when the train left the Atlantic Avenue stop. It was the oppressive, weighty silence that comes when everyone is uneasy. A man who appeared to take up more room than the bench permitted was the cause of the discomfort. His arms were a road map of dark tattoos that vanished into his collar. He was a biker, broad-shouldered and covered in worn black leather. But it was the fact that he was crying, not his size or his clothing, that made people shudder.
His head lowered, his body trembling with heavy heaving tears, his large, rough hands clutching a small, unkempt terrier in a torn wool blanket. Passengers started to execute the delicate avoidance choreography one by one. They moved to the far ends of the vehicle, mumbling behind their hands and tightening their grip on their bags. They viewed a big man exhibiting such unfiltered, uncontrolled emotion as a wild card—something erratic and hence dangerous. His sorrow appeared as a danger to them.
I remained in my current location. It wasn’t the show that had me staring, but rather the way he held that dog. He was providing the animal with shelter in addition to carrying it. His touch defied all the stereotypes his looks implied since it was so delicate and achingly gentle. In the most public and sterile of settings, a heartfelt, heartbreaking farewell took place.
It was obvious that the dog was near death. Its fur was dull with the gray of great age, and its breathing was a series of shallow, ragged hitches. The last traces of a lifetime of loyalty would occasionally be a faint, nearly undetectable thump of its tail against the biker’s leather sleeve. The motorcyclist didn’t even flinch when a man a few seats down muttered loudly about calling transport security. He was in a world of two, repeatedly pledging that he wouldn’t let go while murmuring gentle, rhythmic affirmations into the dog’s ear.
It seemed as though fear and judgment had created a physical void between the rider and the other passengers. There was something off about that emptiness. Motivated by an unidentified urge, I got up, walked across the shaking floor, and took a seat right next to him. At first, he didn’t glance up, but his tears turned into a sharp breath.
I remarked softly, my voice barely heard over the tunnel’s boom, “He looks like a good friend.”
At last, the motorcyclist looked up. His eyes were ringed with a deep, tired tiredness and were bloodshot. “The finest,” he growled. “Cancer.” I couldn’t do it, but the veterinarian said it was time. Not in that chemical-smelling area with the white tiles. He is worthy of more than a fluorescent office needle.
He informed me that Buster was the name of the dog. He clarified that they were on their way to the end of the line, Coney Island. He had discovered Buster shivering beneath the boardwalk there on a chilly October morning twelve years prior. The man, a soldier at the time, had just returned home and was having trouble coping with the unseen structures of a war that kept coming back to him. He was alone, furious, and heading toward an unidentifiable blackness. The anchor had been Buster. The dog was only interested in the man’s presence and didn’t give a damn about the scars or tattoos. That unkempt terrier had been the reason he got out of bed, maintained his sobriety, and restored his faith in the world for more than ten years.
The mood in the car started to change as the train rumbled south toward the seaside. The other riders who had been observing from the sidelines had turned their attention away from a “dangerous biker.” They witnessed a man lose his true love. The murmurs ceased. The woman released her purse from her grip. The subway car’s invisible walls started to fall apart one by one.
A teenager wearing an oversized sweatshirt removed his headphones and sat a few seats away, observing with a polite, solemn expression. A clean tissue was taken out of an older woman’s bag and silently given to the man. No one spoke; no one provided vacuous counsel. They simply drew nearer, encircling a dying animal and the man who loved him in a circle of human pity.
Something odd occurred by the time the train slowed for the last stop at Stillwell Avenue. A few bystanders got up with the rider when he stood up, his legs a little wobbly. In a silent procession, we emerged onto the platform. The air became strong and salty with the smell of the Atlantic as we followed him across the pavement and onto the boardwalk’s wooden planks.
The winter tide was retreating from the shore in long, rhythmic sighs, and the beach was almost deserted. The sand was hard and wet as the motorcycle descended to the water’s edge. In order to give Buster one more chance to feel the sea wind on his face, he knelt and partially removed the blanket. A moment of common humanity brought us together as a group of twelve strangers from twelve different lives. As the sun caught the white caps of the waves, we saw the man let his dog observe the horizon.
Although the farewell was tragic and a silent acceptance of the inevitable, it was also delivered with amazing dignity. A little group had come together on its own to witness the end of a lovely life in the center of a city that is sometimes accused of being cold and cruel.
I came to the realization that the morning had changed more than just the biker’s journey when we eventually parted ways and headed back toward the station or into Brooklyn’s streets. A carload of passengers had boarded that train with their guard up, conditioned to avoid the messiness of loss and to fear what they didn’t comprehend. However, they had all remembered how to be human when one person decided to sit down rather than walk away.
We discovered that the most fearsome exteriors can conceal the most tender hearts, and that compassion doesn’t always have a kind face. Although fear is a strong force, it is brittle and vanishes the instant we decide to approach. That day, the biker left the beach by himself, but he had help. We left with the lesson that we are never more alive than when we are prepared to bear even a small portion of another person’s sorrow, and he left with the understanding that his sadness was acknowledged and understood.