On the way down, the elevator is crowded again. I was almost early. Almost. Early! But then the Blackberry Sync on my computer decided to update itself, things went haywire and before I knew it the 7:52 train was long gone.
At the corner of 186th, across from the elementary school, a remotely familiar woman is unloading numerous children from a gray minivan. A takes a while and a double double-take to realize she is the daughter of a rabbi I knew in college. At the time, she was subject to the boyish crush of many young men, myself among them, who attended the rabbi's weekly lecture, held in his Manhattan apartment.
Today, I am wearing a pair of pants I haven't worn in a very long time. I have no clue what their color is called. If you took some brown, maroon, gray, and a tingle of something found only on the other side of the rainbow, you'd get my pants. I coupled them with a new white shirt I bought just last night, but the shirt was wrinkled after the commute home so I had to throw a red sweater over it.
The ride to work is long and slow, as it often is when I'm already late. The train reaches 59th and on the platform I run into Michael W. It's really great to see an old friend that I rarely get to spend time with, and as is always the case with Michael, our conversation is philosophical, jovial, and meaningful. At Rockefeller, I have to cut the conversation short to get off, and it's one of the very rare moments that I wish my ride was just a tad longer.
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