Brazilian

A few too many tequila shots last night have turned to exhaustion this morning. Walking to the train, I run into James W. who always calls me by a funny nickname he's invented. It reminds me of a conversation I had with a colleague at the bar last night, who insists on making fun of people’s names (or anything else, for that matter) whenever applicable.

At the station, on the outside of the door, someone has hung posters advertising Capoeira, a form of Brazilian martial arts dance. I walk through the tunnel in pass the turnstiles. The station is notably brighter, new lights must have been installed overnight. Tzippy H. is on the platform but she doesn’t wave or say hello. Ilana C. does, as I pass her on my way to my usual spot. She says good morning and I respond in kind.

The train arrives with some empty seats but I am not quick enough to get one. We are almost at the next stop when I think I spot one last empty chair and walk over. It is unoccupied, but there is a pair of legs on the ground in front of it. The man in the seat next door is so tall that his legs cannot fit in front of him, and he is sitting at an angle with his legs in front of the empty seat. He offers to move, but in an effort to spare the man some suffering I decline. Not all passengers are as pitiful though, and two stops later another man, almost as tall as the first, takes the seat, rudely asking the first to move over. The new guy is reading an article about David Letterman’s “staff girls” in the Daily News, and standing above him it’s easy for me to read over his shoulder. He must have noticed, because for the rest of the ride he keeps looking up at me with disapproval and a bloodthirsty countenance. Unmoved, I continue reading.