Corrina, Corrina

On a Saturday night subway train in Madrid, boys and girls stood and sang as they poured Coca-Cola and liquor into plastic cups. They did not care how much of it sloshed onto their shoes.

The train moved, but the air inside did not. It was heavy with sugar, tobaccoed breath, and freshly applied body soap. It is the great absurdity of our time that one is supposed to bathe before going out.

Through blue-jeaned and short-skirted legs, I saw a girl sitting on the floor in front of the doors on the side of the train where they did not open. She was looking at the phone in her lap. Tears dripped onto the screen.

Another girl sat down beside her. She reached out and cradled wet cheeks, then leaned forward and planted a forehead kiss.

Soon after, a third sat down. She, too, reached out, and with the back of her right pointer finger, brushed away smudges of makeup. Finally, a fourth sat down; they formed a circle on the floor of the train. They chatted briefly before the three lifted their fallen comrade by the arms. She was still crying.

Let her be sad, I thought. It’s part of the deal here, in life. Sometimes we are sad. And sometimes, we would rather not be consoled. I remembered the time in a middle-school orchestra class I flubbed a solo and began to cry. The first violinist, a tiny, cheerful girl trotted over to me, put her hand on my shoulder, and smiled. I glared at her, said “No,” and learned what it means to resent.

But the friends began to chant: Corriiiiiiiiiiiii-na. Corriiiiiiiiii-na. The chant spread and picked up steam as it rolled down the train. Soon, boys joined in who did not know why they were chanting or who Corrina was, and the voices ricocheted off the metal bars that ran across the roof of the train and the hard, plastic seats and the thick, glass windows, and drowned out the announcement of the next station.

The train came to a stop and noise poured out as the door opened. The chant went on. The girls stepped off the train together, and as they turned toward the exit, I caught a glimpse of Corrina’s face, her eyes red and puffy, her cheeks swollen.

Corrina laughed.

She tried not to, but she couldn’t help it.

Corrina laughed, and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

If you enjoyed this story — and even if you didn’t — you should check out my book, Ticketless: How Sneaking Into The Super Bowl And Everything Else (Almost) Held My Life Together.