By Sonny Lufrano

Johnson Johnson stands behind a sheet of thick glass. He is short, black and sports a gruff beard that hasn¹t been manicured in any meaningful way since Jimmy Carter was in the White House.  On this particular Saturday evening, Johnson Johnson is angry. Angry that he has to spend his Saturday night in a silly, itchy New York City transit authority outfit. Johnson¹s shift starts at 1 in the morning and runs straight through to sunrise. Around 4:30 Johnson starts sweating in the crotch and the wool transit authority pants itch like poison ivy on a whining teen.  "And that would be OK,"  Johnson tells himself, if his job allowed time to think about life. After all, that¹s why Johnson Johsnon took this job. To think.

Saturday night is the worst night of the week for a subway information provider. Starting around midnight, every out-of-towner develops an intractable transportation issue requiring the attention a mother lavishes upon a newborn. Johnson often imagined setting up a folding cot for his customers to calm their nerves. 

"OK. Now tell me where you want to go," Johnson would say as the traveler lay silent on the cot.

"Well you see my sister-in-law just moved from Soho to Prospect Park and she says the DMQ will let me off about five blocks from her place but I've heard those five blocks are pretty sketchy at night and I'm worried and I don't know if I'd be better off on the 4-5-6 and then transferring to the L or M line. Whaddya think?"

At this point Johnson Johnson would offer his customer a foot massage and a cup of warm tea.  Only after a calming state of transit equilibrium had been reached would Johnson begin to lay out the best route.

In his vision, Johnson wound up in Mayor Guiliani's office accepting the New York Transportation Man of the Year award before heading off on a two month road trip to appear on Oprah, Letterman, Leno, Nightline and The Man Show. On each show, Johnson Johnson would repeat one line over and over and over. "It's not a subway system. It's a spaceship connecting our being." At this point the talk show hosts would cut to a station break and ask their assistants to bring Johson Johsnon a glass of water to help him clear his head. Johnson Johson would smile, acknowledging the hosts' intellectual imprisonment, forced to lead lives driven by focus groups and Arbitron ratings.

A man appears in front of Johnson Johnson's window. He is sweaty and white and looks fast. In a hurry. Gotta be where he gotta be and he isn't there. Sweat runs down the side of this man's face.  Anguish runs through his eyes. 

"Hey man, we're fuckin' lost. Fuck. I was trying to get to the Lower East Side and we took the 4 and I see my stop going by and I want to get out and the fuckin' train won't stop. You ever had that happen to you? Huh? I¹m standing up and I¹m looking for some kinda button to push or some lever to pull and the fuckin' train keeps goin'. What the fuck is that? Huh?"

"Well, sir, the train you were on is an express train. It goes directly from Union Station into Brooklyn. If you wanted to get off in China Town..." 

"Look Mr. fuckin' I went to school for this, I know I fucked up. I'm not asking for you to recount the fuckin' error in my ways. I¹m askin' you to tell me how the fuck I get back on the right track. Can you do that?"

Johnson Johnson looked at the man. 40ish. Tattered clothes. Tattered life. Johnson Johnson imagined he was a welder or an unemployed welder. The man's hands were red and blistering with streaks of old blood running from the tips of the dirty fingernails to the knuckles. Johnson Johnson was a quick read. And he was not afraid because there was a 20-inch thick bullet proof glass shield separating him from the welder.

"If you'll walk out this exit, turn right, cross the street and go down the platform again you'll be headed in the right direction. Just wait for the 6 train."

"But I¹m gonna have to pay again if I leave the station and go cross the street."

"Yes. I'm afraid that¹s correct sir."

"That's shit. I ain¹t payin' you again. It¹s not my fuckin' fault you ain't got these trains marked right. I ain¹t payin' again. You give me the buck fifty," the man said before pounding his fist into the glass.

Johnson Johson looked the man up and down. A decision had to be made. Each transit authority information disseminator is given five gold plated metro cards a year to give to disgruntled customers who pose a serious security threat. The cards provide free rides for life. They also come equipped with a microchip capable of reading the customer's heart rate When that rate exceeds 170 beats per minute, a distress signal goes to the New York City Transportation Authority's Criminal Unit (NYCTACU).

Johnson Johnson determined the man was angry but not that angry. Using thirty-six years of experience, Johnson determined this particular welder was not worth a gold-plated metro card.

"Please sir. I'm sorry about what's happened. The New York City Transportation Authority is sorry about what's happened. But think about it this way. Now you know the 4 doesn't stop in Chinatown."

The welder looked at Johnson Johnson. In a second, Johnson Johnson knew he'd miscalculated the welder's level of transit despair. "Splack." The sound of the welder's body hitting the oncoming train reverberated through the glass.

Johnson Johnson opened a drawer and pulled out his gold plated metro cards. He still had three left.