Last Night in the Subway
MAY 18, 2011 · 1:16 PM
I had been singing aloud to myself, somewhat quietly, but none too surreptitiously.
On the L.
Felt a little conspicuous ’cause that girl was probably noticing.
But not enough.
On the Brooklyn-bound G platform, a determinedly geeky guy in nerd specs and shorts was playing terrific contemporary accordion to enthusiasm and maybe some cash.
While on the Queens-bound side, a small girl, at least minimally adult in years and plugged into at least one earbud, meticulously danced a solitary Latin dance with no embarrassment.
From my perspective, she was dancing in silence, so it was like watching a geographically confused tai-chi. No one else appeared be noticing her as she did not appear to be requesting notice. Those seeking entertainment watched the accordion player across the tracks.
On the G, I returned to my singing. Immediately, I felt a large black guy watching me.
But he seemed to smile a small, approving smile.
He worked for the MTA.
2 Nights Ago in the Subway
MAY 19, 2011 · 10:56 AM
In the realm of the G once more, an attractive girl and her young Asian cohort seemed to be laughing at me as I approached the homeward platform. I didn’t know them but thought maybe they remembered me from the karaoke. Then she mentioned a party thrown by a famous retail designer or eponymous megaorganization.
Which meant she was a style girl. So, she probably was laughing at me.
The guy seemed nice.
Wednesday, in the Subway
MAY 20, 2011 · 11:52 AM
The clean cut black guy, laughing and joking toward a pal in a neighboring seat, was neither with nor near a pal. He was self-contained. A nut, either natively or self-inflicted.
Laughing about a “homo,” I think.
Maybe it was just the word homo that pleased him. Endlessly. As the A train crawled more slowly that a human could, a marathon in slow motion between two stops.
A Latin guy yelled incomprehensibly about Jesus. Probably.
Jesus was the only word I could make out if I am correct. It was a recurring, almost recognizable motif.
I suppose he might have been incomprehensible even if the words could be understood.
On the platform at West 4th, I can’t remember for sure what the ever-so-slightly crazed looking Oriental fellow was doing to unnerve me as I passed. I think it was a martial arts move of some kind, unredeemed by a mustache that probably should have been ironic.
But probably wasn’t.