Third level

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THE presidents of the New York Centraland the New York, New Haven andHartford railroads will swear on a stackof timetables that there are only two. ButI say there are three, because I've beenon the third level of the Grand CentralStation. Yes, I've taken the obvious step:I talked to a psychiatrist friend of mine,among others. I told him about the thirdlevel at Grand Central Station, and he said it was a wakingdream wish fulfillment. He said I was unhappy. That mademy wife kind of mad, but he explained that he meant themodern world is full of insecurity, fear, war, worry and allthe rest of it, and that I just want to escape. Well, whodoesn't? Everybody I know wants to escape, but they don'twander down into any third level at Grand Central Station. 

But that's the reason, he said, and my friends allagreed. Everything points to it, they claimed. My stampcollecting, for example; that's a 'temporary refuge fromreality.' Well, maybe, but my grandfather didn't need anyrefuge from reality; things were pretty nice and peaceful  in his day, from all I hear, and he started my collection.It's a nice collection too, blocks of four of practically everyU.S. issue, first-day covers, and so on. President Rooseveltcollected stamps too, you know. 

Anyway, here's what happenedat Grand Central. One night lastsummer I worked late at theoffice. I was in a hurry to getuptown to my apartmentso I decided to take thesubway from GrandCentral becauseit's faster thanthe bus.Now, I don'tknow why thisshould havehappened tome. I'm just anordinary guynamed Charley,thirty-one yearsold, and I was wearing a tan gabardine suit and a strawhat with a fancy band; I passed a dozen men who lookedjust like me. And I wasn't trying to escape from anything; Ijust wanted to get home to Louisa, my wife . 

I turned into Grand Central from Vanderbilt Avenue,and went down the steps to the first level, where you taketrains like the Twentieth Century. Then I walked downanother flight to the second level, where the suburban trainsleave from, ducked into an arched doorway heading for thesubway — and got lost. That's easy to do. I've been in andout of Grand Central hundreds of times, but I'm alwaysbumping into new doorways and stairs and corridors. OnceI got into a tunnel about a mile long and came out in thelobby of the Roosevelt Hotel. Another time I came up in anoffice building on Forty-sixth Street, three blocks away. 

Sometimes I think Grand Central is growing like atree, pushing out new corridors and staircases like roots. There's probably along tunnel thatnobody knows aboutfeeling its way underthe city right now, on itsway to Times Square, andmaybe another to Central Park.And maybe — because for so manypeople through the years GrandCentral has been an exit, a way ofescape — maybe that's how thetunnel I got into... But I never toldmy psychiatrist friend about thatidea.

The corridor I was in beganangling left and slanting downward andI thought that was wrong, but I kept onwalking. All I could hear was the emptysound of my own footsteps and I didn't passa soul. Then I heard that sort of hollow roarahead that means open space and peopletalking. The tunnel turned sharp left; I wentdown a short flight of stairs and came outon the third level at Grand Central Station.For just a moment I thought I was back onthe second level, but I saw the room wassmaller, there were fewer ticket windowsand train gates, and the informationbooth in the centre was wood and oldlooking. And the man in the boothwore a green eyeshade andlong black sleeveprotectors. Thelights were dimand sort offlickering. ThenI saw why; theywere open-flamegaslights. 

There were brass spittoons on the floor, and acrossthe station a glint of light caught my eye; a man was pullinga gold watch from his vest pocket. He snapped open thecover, glanced at his watch and frowned. He wore a derbyhat, a black four-button suit with tiny lapels, and he hada big, black, handlebar mustache. Then I looked aroundand saw that everyone in the station was dressed likeeighteen-ninety-something; I never saw so many beards,sideburns and fancy mustaches in my life. A woman walkedin through the train gate; she wore a dress with leg-ofmutton sleeves and skirts to the top of her high-buttonedshoes. Back of her, out on the tracks, I caught a glimpse ofa locomotive, a very small Currier & Ives locomotive with afunnel-shaped stack. And then I knew.