By Eric Gershman

Cross Ties

 I didn’t get her number, let alone where she lived.

She was on the subway doing a Herald crossword puzzle when I dropped my phone at her feet. She struck me as a Christy Hynde sort, in a sexy-nightclub kind of way.

My phone blared out my way-back-when playlist. It was an 80s mix I had put together in deference to the puzzle I constructed for this morning’s Herald publication.

Out of my phone came Love Shack Baby.

“Great song,” the girl said with this cute squeak in her voice. She went back to my puzzle.

No one talks on the subway except for the underground acts. I tried it once. I do stand-up for fun and on a dare from my best friend Robert I spit out a three-minute set on the #1 train coming back from Chambers Street. “I lost a lot of money in the market as of late,” I said to my subway prisoners, most of them Wall Street guys. “But someone found it in the produce section.”

I made eight bucks.

I silenced my phone right away but not quick enough for it to skip to the next 80s anthem. Foreigner’s Don’t Stop Believing.

“What decade are we in?” she said as she looked at me. Her leather jacket was ripped at the sleeve in a been-out-all-night sort of way.

“I’m stuck in the past,” I said.

“Wake-me-up-before-you go-go?” She held her pen out and stared into space. Why she was asking was clear to me.

I struck my palm with my fist, and it smacked.

She stared at me. “Bam?” she said, rubbing her nose ring.

“Close.”

“Oh, thanks I got it …”

“Don Johnson’s occupation,” I said, touching the puzzle. “That’s the down word.”

“You’re a Solver?”

“I’m the Constructor.”

She cocked her head to the side.

“I’m the editor.” I pointed to the paper. “My mother used to take out the middle piece of my jigsaw to get me to eat my vegetables.”

The girl smiled. “Oh my god, I’m an addict. Every day. What is your name?”

I shrugged. “Charlie Musk, says it right there.” I pointed again. Who cared about puzzle editors? I took it out of my dating profile. It was not helping.

“I'm Jenny," she said. "How may I ask do you make these?”

“I had to invent Google first.” I smiled, but I have bad teeth which I tend to hide.

The train pulled into 34th street.

“You have a nice smile.” Yes, she said that.

“You better tell me what themes you want to see before the conductor fines us for talking on a subway.” I gave her my clever look, the one with the eyebrow.

“Music,” she said. “Any kind of music. And food. How about dessert? Do one on desserts! You could do one on French or Swiss or” —she glanced out the train window— “Wait, this is my stop. Bye! Love your stuff!” She got up and walked out of the train before it moved out of the station. She faded out of my life as Addicted to Love did the same.

***

 I’ve been riding what looks like the same subway car at the same hour since the last time I saw her. That was two months ago. From time to time, I’ve even walked around the block between 33rd and 40th looking for her but it just ends up with me staring into a cup of Matzah Bowl at Ben's Deli, like a reward for keeping the expedition going.

And what would I say if I did in fact run into her?

Should I run an ad in the Village Voice? Something like, “Jenny; you ride trains and love crossword puzzles. Call me at work.” Nah, sounds like an ad for spelling bee contestants.

“Forget her,” best friend and comedy coach Robert said. He is getting chemo in a hospital in Denver, and we talk for an hour a week while he gets the drip.

“How ‘bout I throw myself in front of a train?” I said. “The press coverage would be insane.”

“Don’t make cancer-boy come to New York just ‘cause you want a hero’s funeral.

How about you just put a clue in your puzzle.”

“Like what, ‘Call me Maybe’?”

Over the next few weeks, I tried a few crosswords with dessert themes with clues like ‘French chocolate delicacy' and ‘Vegetable Cake'—sorry, I don’t supply answers—but I didn’t even get a response from my regulars.

“How’s the subway stalker?” Robert asked out of the blue during one of our marathon talks.

I said, “I know how she takes her coffee. I bring her one every day.”

He sighed. “Didn’t you guys talk about 80s music or something?”

I gave the 80s' theme another crossword try. I did a grid with the intersection of the Tommy Tu-Tone Hit going across, and How to Contact Blondie heading down.

I set up a Facebook account for Eight-six-seven-five-three-o-nine. Maybe she would write her number on my wall.

I thought about starting a business around printing phone numbers on t-shirts.

“It might be popular with kids on field trips to the zoo,” Robert discouraged.

I ran another 80s puzzle instead.

Nothing happened for a day, a week, then a month.

I was sitting at my desk one day when the phone rang.

“Hi Charlie.” That voice, the one with the squeak. “It’s Jenny.”

"Jenny-Jenny," I said. I looked at the caller ID. Yup, got her number.

Now I had to make her mine.

Eric W. Gershman has written an historical fiction/fantasy novel and a science fiction novelette. His short stories have been published in two The Red Penguin Collections: The Roaring 20s and Behind Closed Doors, in Monnath Books' Tabula Rasa: A Short Story Anthology, and in Weaver Magazine. Currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing, he lives in Vermont with his wife and two dogs.