How often do you get a song stuck in your head? Hundreds of times per year, usually. Only this time was different. I had never heard this song before. It was a deconstructed song—a melody mostly. It’s always difficult to put music into words, but it went something like this: “Mhmm da-do do-do, mmm do-do do-da.” Over and over again I’ve serenaded myself. It’s been weeks now. I’m not even certain of the instruments that created it. I’ve slowly molded it into a horn-led chorus. A cascade of horns in an orchestra almost. Very much like a swingin’ jazz piece from the big band era. I’m a jazz connoisseur, so maybe that’s why the tune has stuck with me for so long.  

I hum it to myself in my office. I hum it in the shower. I hum it while walking the dog. I hum it in the rain. I hum it while walking through the city. I hum it on the subway. I hum it in my dreams. I hum and I hum and I hum; each round leaves me more crazed to identify the song. Its simplicity is also its evil.

I awoke late for work on Tuesday morning, around 7:45 a.m. Miraculously, my little tune was not my disrupting alarm but rather a large truck that blew by my house and shook me (and my home’s foundation) for a stern rattle. I ran through my morning routine - an arduous process when you consider the banality of it - with my head free of horns. I was not humming in the shower, or while taking the dog outside, or while getting dressed, or while walking the streets (in the rain, even), or while boarding the subway. I didn’t fully realize the tune was gone until I took my seat on the subway and finally had time to think about what was missing, and placed it as my persistent little song. When I realized it was gone, I foolishly attempted to piece together what it sounded like. Thankfully, my mind had been through enough repetition over the last few weeks and apparently decided to remove the tune from my subconscious entirely - a psychological blessing, indeed. 

With my wonderful newfound clarity, it seemed only fitting that Tuesday’s transit would be ever so peaceful. The route to my work was 25 minutes, the first 10 of which I spent visually caressing every detail of the car, similar to how a child observes a new place; nothing can interrupt their personal solitude of inspection. The trite palette of the car’s interior furnishing clashed with the exuberant posters that clad its walls, all advertising something different, each less necessary than the last. The posters had not been changed since I started taking the subway to work years ago, so by now, I was well accustomed to the imagery and had even memorized the slogans on many. “Wherever there’s Squirt, there’s fun!”, “If you think flavor went out when filters came in, try Marlboro”, and probably my favorite, “Wife-savers!” in bold above a plate of hearty fried chicken. Today, though, I noticed a new addition. In the corner furthest from my seat was a plain black and white poster that boldly read: “It’s time to meet your maker.” The text was oddly blunt and mysterious, sure, but what I found most unusual was that no copies were hanging anywhere else. Just the one in the corner. Most ads had several copies plastered inside the cars just as extra assurance that you will buy their product. But not this one. In fact, it did not seem to be advertising any product at all. Just a plain white poster with black letters. It was certainly puzzling but I simply attributed it to the wave of weird novelty art movements that plague any metropolitan scape. I settled back into my personal terrarium and viewed the life outside of it. The passengers included the usual suspects: the mustached man in plaid; Mrs. Davenport and her elderly son, James; the policeman who insisted on a full wool uniform even in our current dog days; and many other unremarkable faces that casually made up the mosaic of city life. 

One face I did not recognize, however, was that of an elderly woman seated directly across from me. I had not noticed her before this very moment. It was as if she suddenly appeared from thin air as a revelation to me. I pillaged my mind for any recollection of her boarding the car, or sitting down, or any sign of her existence whatsoever before this last moment. But apparently, my mind was still recovering from the song purge because I could not place her in any way. Despite possessing a menacing look of impatience that is common with elderly women, she didn’t seem threatening. After all, I am a well-built man and just because I spend my days huddled in an office instead of stacking lumber does not mean I couldn’t handle a fuss should one arise, especially by a little bag of bones as she. 

I could’ve easily ignored her had I not sensed her staring at me intensely. My head was turned down the car for most of the time but I could clearly see her eyes from the corner of mine. I guessed she may just be a friendly old soul and was waiting for a greeting. In an attempt to please her, I faced her, smiled, and half-nodded for a silent “Hi, I am acknowledging your existence” greeting. To my surprise and slight unease, she returned no greeting nor change in emotion whatsoever. Her stare was forbidding, like a predator eyeing its prey before the attack. I stared back longer than intended. Frozen in her cold gaze. At that moment, I understood how deer freeze in headlights. It’s involuntary. I almost gave in to speech and addressed her rudeness to stare but instead resorted back to the end of the car as if I didn’t even notice her in the first place. 

During our face-off, I was able to attain her full description. She was like no other elderly woman I had ever seen before. Practically a different species than my sweet grandmother. Her wrinkles were ravines that broke across the fragile shell of her exterior and led into sunken features almost reptilian in appearance. Her hair was visually coarse and sickly thin to the extent that regions of her dry scalp peeked through for an absolutely pathetic crown. All of this, in addition to no apparent sign of makeup or self-care, made her no oil painting. It seemed that the only functioning - alive - part of her face was her eyes. The eyes that were still staring, acutely as ever. It was so intense, in fact, that I could not recall her blinking. Not once. 

Still as statues for minutes on end. With each passing second, I wondered more furiously when we would reach the station. It seemed to have been hours at this point. Her eyes beaming so fiery I began to feel a sweat creep up and over my unusually tight collar. I huffed a couple breaths in slight desperation for fresh air, which seemed even more absent on the subway than usual. My unease grew into physical discomfort while her demeanor seemed to fade into a calm serenity. I just knew she was the cause of this. I didn’t know why I thought that but it popped into my head at the moment and I couldn’t think of anything else. Finally, my pressure and panic and fear ballooned over the precipice of rage as I decided it was time to call her out. Without turning my head, I quickly rose to my feet as a king rises from his throne in seething fury, ready to spit fire down below and melt the old hag’s face right off her crackling bones. And as I turned my head in my blinding fit of wrath, I was met with hers — eye to eye. My smoldering vexation had melted all the way down my creature, chilling every bone and nerve under my name as our sights locked. When she stood with me, we were identical in height. Most frightening, however, was the change in her emotion. Her intense glower was replaced by a comforting glare of long-established love - a motherly love. I could neither move nor speak nor think and, or so it seemed, neither could any of the other passengers who accompanied us in the car. As much as I could gather from the corners of my eye, no one was looking in our direction at all. They rested in complete indifference - ignorance - as if the woman and I weren’t even in their presence. As much as I wanted to yell to the policeman for security, I could not, for the woman and I were lost in a haze. I was extremely perplexed by her new comforting look, which was of the utmost contrast to her previous death stare. The confusion was not shown in my face, though, still blank as ever in silent fear. I believe we would’ve stood in stone for eternity had my eyes not suddenly widened out of my control, hers blinked for the first time, and as a mother softly serenades a lullaby to her sleepy child, she began to hum a melody under her breath: “Mhmm da-do do-do, mmm do-do do-da.” 

I began to weep in sweet release, as did she.