Mr. Speedy Strikes Again

I was riding the late night A train back to Wash  Hei' last Saturday when Mr. Speedy struck again.  As the train pulled into 125th St., his distinctive voice sang over the subway system, "125th St., Home of the World famous Apollo The-a-tre."  The train sped down the tunnel, and within the blink of an eye it lurched into the next stop, "145th St. Straight to Hell!" blurted Mr. Speedy.  The doors snapped open, disgorged a few unlucky denizens, and the train was off again, speeding like a bullet out of, well, Hell.  "168th St. Da Hospital"  announced Mr. Speedy again.  The doors blinked open, then closed with precision.  The car was nearly empty at this point, but when we reached my stop, Mr. Speedy still had enough energy to announce, "190th St. Cloistahs."  At that, I limped out of the car.  Earlier that day I had passed out from hunger, or exhaustion, or whatever, in Union Square.  I had woken to a crowd of lookie-loos lurking overhead.  Confused, I had mistakenly thought that a man trying to pull me to my feet was instead dragging me to who-knows-where. On the subway, while nursing a skinned knee and bruised shoulder, Mr. Speedy had kept me company when I needed it.  His familiar voice echoed in my head as I wincingly climbed the stairs to the street, and to home.