Commute
The only thing I hear is the gentle barum-barum of the subway on the tracks; it is rush hour in New York City. The train is a landscape of dangling earbuds, open novels, and folded tabloids, all attached to people who contribute to the long stretches of silence punctuated by declarations of location and general admonitions.
_____ _____ _____ _____ _____ Now arriving at 14th St, Union Square. _____ _____ _____ Stand clear of the closing doors.
I squeeze in amongst the passengers and open my own novel.
"That's an excellent book." A Confederacy of Dunces.
"Oh yeah?" I ask, looking up.
"Oh yeah, one of my favorites," replies a woman, probably in her sixties, clutching an oversize Duane Reade bag.
Once, when a friend and I had seen a woman with such a bag, I asked him the most absurd thing he could imagine her keeping in a bag like that and he instinctively replied, "Condoms." My response had been Wite-Out because I could understand the compulsion to by condoms, but I had no idea what a woman like that would do with so much Wite-Out.
He guessed she'd probably use the Wite-Out how we all use it.
Now arriving at 23rd Street.
After a moment she continues, "I'll never look at a hot dog the same way again."
I haven't read to this part of the book yet but I wonder how she previously considered a hot dog. And, I guess, how her perception of a hot dog could change. "Oh yeah."
The train's emptied and by now I've taken a seat; the woman hefts her bag and takes the seat next to me, silently, looking at me sidelong.
This woman, she isn't beautiful, of course, and barely seems to know what to say to me but still I ask her, "What stop are you getting off at?"
"Lincoln Center Station. You?"
New York City overwhelms me, the sixty-or-so commuters who have barely registered my face, to whom my voice is mildly annoying. New York City, despite all its reticence, is a continuous judgment. A young, pretty Latino girl across the aisle from me has her eyebrow casually cocked at me; it's jarring to a Midwesterner. Two black men down the aisle begin to sing hip-hop, but it doesn't do much to change the atmosphere of the train. The atmosphere suddenly feels permeated with scrutiny, I've got to transfer at Times Square, but, "I'm getting off at Lincoln Center, too!" Unconsciously, I clutch the woman's shoulder, "Do you feel like getting a coffee?"
Barum-barum. Still, nobody speaks and the train remains silent. Now arriving at 42nd Street, Times Square. She nods almost imperceptibly. We reach 66th Street and, though I wouldn't be able to explain it, I follow the woman out the subway car.
_____ _____ _____ _____ _____ Now arriving at 14th St, Union Square. _____ _____ _____ Stand clear of the closing doors.
I squeeze in amongst the passengers and open my own novel.
"That's an excellent book." A Confederacy of Dunces.
"Oh yeah?" I ask, looking up.
"Oh yeah, one of my favorites," replies a woman, probably in her sixties, clutching an oversize Duane Reade bag.
Once, when a friend and I had seen a woman with such a bag, I asked him the most absurd thing he could imagine her keeping in a bag like that and he instinctively replied, "Condoms." My response had been Wite-Out because I could understand the compulsion to by condoms, but I had no idea what a woman like that would do with so much Wite-Out.
He guessed she'd probably use the Wite-Out how we all use it.
Now arriving at 23rd Street.
After a moment she continues, "I'll never look at a hot dog the same way again."
I haven't read to this part of the book yet but I wonder how she previously considered a hot dog. And, I guess, how her perception of a hot dog could change. "Oh yeah."
The train's emptied and by now I've taken a seat; the woman hefts her bag and takes the seat next to me, silently, looking at me sidelong.
This woman, she isn't beautiful, of course, and barely seems to know what to say to me but still I ask her, "What stop are you getting off at?"
"Lincoln Center Station. You?"
New York City overwhelms me, the sixty-or-so commuters who have barely registered my face, to whom my voice is mildly annoying. New York City, despite all its reticence, is a continuous judgment. A young, pretty Latino girl across the aisle from me has her eyebrow casually cocked at me; it's jarring to a Midwesterner. Two black men down the aisle begin to sing hip-hop, but it doesn't do much to change the atmosphere of the train. The atmosphere suddenly feels permeated with scrutiny, I've got to transfer at Times Square, but, "I'm getting off at Lincoln Center, too!" Unconsciously, I clutch the woman's shoulder, "Do you feel like getting a coffee?"
Barum-barum. Still, nobody speaks and the train remains silent. Now arriving at 42nd Street, Times Square. She nods almost imperceptibly. We reach 66th Street and, though I wouldn't be able to explain it, I follow the woman out the subway car.
posted by enjudah at
8:42 PM
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