An Early Ride

A doctor's appointment before work has put me back on the early track this morning. I'm aiming for the 7:20 train when I leave the building and see a world class Pontiac Catalina parked outside. It reminds me of the 1979 Monte Carlo I used to drive around in high school. Its range didn't include anything much further than the local grocery, but I loved it, mostly for being nicknamed "The Tank" by my friends.

It's rare that I've made it all the way to the platform and haven't seen anyone I know. With no one to talk to and no one to avoid I cure the boredom through observation of other. Most of the women, Asians aside, have their hair in curls today, and I think it's related to the humid weather. I pass one curly woman with a pink tank-top and a violin case strapped to her back.

Further on the platform a different woman is fiddling with her own musical instruments. It takes a while but I recognize her as the occasional A-station opera singer. She has a wonderful rendition of the Phantom reprise; her voice is beautiful. It's also incredibly loud and this can sometimes bother people, to the point where some have yelled for her to shut up. Once, a cop spotted her from the catwalk above the staircase and started to make his way towards her. I warned the singer, but she just thanked me and told me she was licensed to operate in the subway.

The train arrives before she starts singing and I find a seat across from two chatty Latinas in summer clothes. One of them is wearing large heavy earrings, which she constantly plays with, and her lobes seem to stretch forever downward. On my right someone is reading an article about Vicodin in New York magazine, and on my left a middle aged woman is staring blankly in front. She gets off at 168th Street and a fat man flounders into her seat.

The fat man's legs are spread too far for comfort, and he has trouble fitting into the spot because of this. He looks at me, as if to say "scoot over and make room." I don't. Unsuccessful with the glance, he turns away and starts to wiggles his body around, eventually squeezing himself together enough to settle in.

At 59th, I switch to the D train. A thirty-something man carries a large messenger bag over his shoulder. The bag sports huge silver buckles and, coupled with dark sunglasses, a slick black button down, and very spiky hair, the man is clearly under-loved and overcompensating. I finally reach my stop and think about all the people I've seen, but mostly about the woman behind me. She would be much prettier without the overbearing wart on her nose.