The Gotham Guillotine

The Greatest Prize in Sport

by Bascom Noah

We made eye contact and, rising without a word, moved to the next car. That was the problem with the subway: you never knew who you’d end up sharing space with.

“As I was saying,” I said once we’d found new seats, “the scariest monster is the one you don’t see.”

The train smelled of pleather.

“So you never bring it on stage?” Ewe asked. “Ever?”

“That’s the idea.”

I flipped through my copy of How to Write a World-Changing Play, careful not to crease the cover. Books made everything sound so easy. Stick to the formula and the play writes itself. What they didn’t tell you was how to get the damn thing produced.

“I’ll tell you who’s a monster,” Ewe said. “Those losers we showed the house to.”

I laughed. They’d been a cute couple. And they met the income requirements. But they just weren’t the right fit for Mott Haven. I shut the book.

“What are you reading?”

Ewe retrieved a thick paperback from a designer bag resembling an Ikea tote.

“Ah,” I said, “the latest anti-capitalism tirade, yeah?”

Hot shit du jour, I thought.

“How’d you get a copy?” I added. “I thought everyone was waiting for the next printing.”

“Cost me a hundred and thirty bucks,” Ewe sighed. “Worth every penny though.”

I took the book and leafed through its pages. The paper felt significant on my thumbs. All at once, I was certain no one would ever see my play. The train rocked on its track, leaning away from an eastbound curve. I opened a page at random. A word caught my eye. The breath caught in my chest.

“Look at this,” I said.

“It’s my book. How are you gonna show me…”

Ewe saw the word and gasped.

“What year is this idiot stuck in?” Ewe said. “Nobody uses that term anymore.”

“It’s fully off-limits,” I agreed.

Our phones were out in an instant. Ewe tried to photograph the offending paragraph, but the jostling train had other ideas.

“How has no one tweeted this yet?” Ewe said.

“They have.”

I showed Ewe my screen.

“@Rad!cal_Eyez put them on blast two weeks ago.”

“I follow @Rad!cal_Eyez,” Ewe said. “How’d I miss this?”

We sank into our seats, crestfallen. Late to the party as always. A silence passed.

The train dipped beneath the river and Ewe asked, “How were you radicalized?”

“Key & Peele,” I said. “You?”

“I got stuck in an elevator with the White Fragility lady.”

The 2 Train rattled all around us. We fell into another silence. I retweeted @Rad!cal_Eyez’s tweet as we skidded into a station. Bodies filed in and out of the car. I tried to take up a lot of room so no one would sit next to me. I checked my phone to see if I’d gotten any likes. How was I supposed to get my play staged if I couldn’t even get a few likes? How was I going to get out of real estate if I couldn’t get my play staged? Sometimes it felt like the whole world was closed-off to me. Our train emerged from beneath the river.

“What if I could radicalize people?” I said.

Ewe’s look of skepticism stung me.

“Do tell.”

“My play,” I said. “If I could get my play out there, maybe I could really affect some change.”

“Do tell,” Ewe repeated.

“Well, I’m addressing bigotry head-on, right? Maybe people would behave better if they were called out on their bullshit more often.”

“Like who?”

“Well,” I thought for a moment, “like everybody!”

Ewe bristled.

“I’m part of a marginalized group, remember? I can’t be a bigot.”

Lucky, I thought.

“I don’t mean us, obviously.”

I gestured around the train car.

“I mean everyone else.”

“Look, if you get your play staged, I’ll be in the front row cheering the loudest. But good luck getting past the…”

Ewe’s phone buzzed. She opened a message.

“Those losers made an offer.”

We exchanged a look.

“I’ll tell the office to hold for a more qualified buyer.”

A spray of light danced across our car. I scowled at an ad for an unpaid research study.

“Anyway,” Ewe said after rifling off a text, “as I was saying, good luck getting past the gatekeepers.”

“Ugh,” I said. “The absolute worst.”

I checked my phone. Nothing. We lurched into 116^th and I could swear the air smelled different when the doors opened. Ewe asked if I was getting off at Central Park North. I shuddered.

“No way,” I said. “Too sketchy. I’ll get off at 96^th and backtrack through the park.”

“Right?!”

Ewe made a face.

“Where do our tax dollars even go? Don’t we pay the cops to clean up the streets?”

“Apparently we pay the cops to beat the shit out of people.”

I glowed in my witticism.

“Preach,” Ewe said. “Fucking bullies. Did you read the new Stonewall book?”

“Of course,” I said. “Did you know it’s based on a true story?”

Ewe gave me an inscrutable look.

“Would’ve been a bloodbath if I was there.”

I made a fist. Ewe grinned.

“If I was there,” I said, “I woulda cracked some skulls.”

Ewe’s eyes got big. I regretted having been so intimidating. Then I followed the gaze. A couple had boarded the train and was seated across the aisle, just a few rows down from us. One of them wore a t-shirt with huge lettering across the front. It took me a moment to realize what it said. When it finally clicked, I exhaled a note of shock. I took in more details: the pins, the stickers, the logos and slogans. Then I understood. Trolls looking for attention. Bigots looking for trouble.

I made eyes at Ewe. We communicated silently, sharing in one another’s outrage.

Someone should do something, I thought. 

I got out my phone and opened TikTok. My own image reflected back at me. Dammit. I didn’t want to look at me. I wanted to look at them. 

I toggled to the rear camera and tried to get the couple in frame without being obvious. They didn’t seem to notice. Their conversation sounded pretty intense. The train was bumpy, but I did the best I could, lingering on them with the camera for as long as I dared.

“Sketchy,” Ewe muttered under her breath.

The couple was arguing now. I put my phone away. One of them grabbed the other’s bicep, squeezing a bit too hard. The one being grabbed winced. The other snarled. Their faces were nearly touching. The snarling one shook the other by the arm, growling some inaudible diatribe. The other growled back. Their faces were so close, I was sure they were spitting on each other. The whole car was tense. No one dared look directly at it, but we took in as much as we could peripherally. When a hand shot upward, everyone in the car jumped.

The train crawled to a stop at Central Park North. I could hear people breathing. Something smelled like Dimetapp. The doors opened, and I got up.

“I think I’ll get off here,” I told Ewe.

Above ground, a pair of cops was rolling through the park in a golf cart. I thought of Stonewall. 

If only I were there, I thought, balling my hands into fists. 

My phone buzzed. It was Ewe.

OMG @Rad!cal_Eyez just retweeted your retweet! Keep up the good fight, warrior!

There was a battle axe emoji.

Warrior, I thought. I like that.

I continued west, and the whole world opened up in front of me.

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Bascom Noah sniffs glue.

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Image Credit: Untitled (2022) by Natasha Zinos