One time as I was waiting for a train, something came flying out of the sky. I heard it before I saw it, because there was a great, frightening crash of breaking glass. Everyone on the platform jumped, and as I turned towards the sound, there was now a heap of what looked like takeout trash on the rails, waiting to be pulverized by the next arriving train.
I next looked around for what unruly passenger would have done this, but no one standing on the platforms looked smugly triumphant about their missile. Instead, everyone was craning their necks, confused, trying to see where it had come from.
There was no answer to that question until a man on the opposite platform called out, it looks like it’s coming from the roof of the building.
This is one of the metro stations cradled within the embrace of tall apartments, maybe 4 or 5 stories high. It sounds like a good idea to live with a metro station in your literal backyard — unparalleled access to movement across the city — until you realize metro stations are trash, and indeed the entire city is also trash, so you don’t actually want access to any of it.
There was one such building right behind us.
“Something got thrown a little earlier,” the man on the opposite platform explained. “I didn’t see where that came from, but this time I did — someone’s throwing it off the roof.”
Our train came soon after that, so I don’t know if it continue raining dangers from the sky all evening.
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