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Edgar waits alone for the steel bullet that will take him to his destination, staring at the subway map. If the trains are the blood vessels of this city, he thinks, then he is heading straight for its heart. Deep within the tunnel, a train blares its horn, heralding its approach and commanding the rats to clear out of its way. Edgar watches with interest as a mother pulls her ten year old back from the edge of the tracks. The boy gazes up at her, not seeing a mother's tender concern but, rather, the face of the adult world as he knows it. Edgar smiles. It doesn't matter. The boy wasn't going to fall on the tracks, and if there was any man tempted to give him a push, there would be two to leap in and rescue the boy.
The train pulls in, and the life blood of his city is exchanged. Edgar waits for the flood of passengers to slow to a trickle, his back pressed against the billboard to avoid being crashed into. The first passengers enter before the train is emptied, shoving their way into the train to fight for a seat. Edgar enters. From the far end of the car, the mother is searching for a seat. Finding every other seat taken, she chooses a seat at random and herds her boy toward it. She looms over him like a great hawk, her arm shot up to grip the handlebar. The boy sits with his hands in his lap; A video game has appeared seemingly from nowhere, and he is engaged with it.
The seats are filling up. Edgar thinks of a game of musical chairs as he wedges himself into a seat between two passengers. A bell chimes and the doors slide shut. A moment later the train lurches forward. Edgar reads everything. There are catchy newspaper headlines, ads for malpractice lawyers, promos for TV specials. One panel reads, 'Poetry in motion.' Edgar entertains himself by singling out words and alphabetizing them in his head. '1800-divorce.' c-d-e-i-r-o-v.
Thirty words or so later, he sees the scenery he associates with his stop through the windows. He exits into another station, a capillary of sorts beneath the surface of this city. But Edgar's eye, this is the heart. Among the rushing passengers is a 24-hour underground street festival. Merchants hawk knockoff goods, religious types pass out tracts, mimes dance with passers-by for pocket change. A sign above his head reads, 'why bother?' Edgar smiles as he tosses his change into a violinist's open instrument case. Why not?