A large M marks the spot. Visible in a way; invisible in many more. Leaving the busy streets above, I enter the station or remnants of what could have respectably been called a station some years earlier. Several stories below surface, a train enters its last stop from one direction and exits in reverse. I ride, sitting.
A woman with high eyes and heavy face jockies her head for a position I cannot understand. It contrived, somehow unnatural. It must be her mother who she travels with. They share the eyes and many other features but the younger woman’s hair is darker, more potent. Her eyes, too, are more searching, less content.
Two old men enter the car and sit down across from me, 2/3rds of a seat. My eyeglasses from elementary school would fit in well with them. Tinted from top to bottom, their glasses like my old ones were meant more for practicality than fashion. They talk and talk. Stops come and go until the squatter, grayer of the two rises to leave. But their friendship and their conversation, all in a tongue foreign to my ear but for pattern and tone, ties them tighter than geographical rationale. The squatter man returns to his seat and dismisses the gesture of exit and fully embraces the friendship.
Tap. Tap. Tap. To the left, a man moves steadily towards our car, walking stick in front of him, shades drawn, and voice repetitive. I have no idea what he is saying. No jar is apparent, no cup sitting empty. Does he want a seat? Is he out for change? He walks a step at a time, each step homogenous, no testing for seats to the sides, simple movement forwards, and steps to the side to avoid central poles. Once per car he pauses to check his location with the tap, tap, tap of his metal walking stick on the metal pole of the subway car.
The mother exits the car with no words to the daughter. They must be a fictional family, existing only in my mind or the state’s sealed adoption records. I look around and realize that on this particular car, all the women appear to be family. They all have the same top heavy brow. Strange. I haven’t noticed this elsewhere in
Empty stops are replaced with quick movement and many people. A busy stop. The car quickly fills with riders, but a weird dynamic takes over them. Seats stand empty but remain empty. Are they cursed? By the nature of them being empty, are they bad seats, filled with smelly neighbors or unaligned cushions? Silently a crowd logic seems to emerge, and while odd to the observer, remains. He shall stand. She shall stand. They shall all stand. I don’t mind. I like space and covet the remaining elbow room to my left.
A couple in their 60’s, standing, switches sides of the car so that we are separated by only inches of metal pole. In motion, they fall romantically, playfully into each other. I can feel their blushing cheeks and rushing blood ignite the metal and warm the surrounding car.
A nearly empty stop returns to claim its position of dominance. Two riders enter and quickly take seats. They are from a different culture, a different group, than the previous stop. They see opportunity where others saw only emptiness. Even the seat next to me is taken. The seat next to me is nearly always the last one to be occupied – my pretty face too imposing or my broad back end too impeding? Or perhaps it’s all perception on my part, mislaid fears of being the scary smelly guy that you must sit next to on a crowded flight. I know I am not, but then those men never seem to know. I might be. But, not today. I am clean, despite my travels, and despite my limited wardrobe and laundering options. I smell, quickly though, just to make sure.
Still good.
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