Wind and Talk

Bill Evans, the Channel 7 meteorologist, said this morning that winds will be gusting to 50 miles an hour. For a bald guy that wears a yamika, this can spell trouble, but downstairs the air seems calm enough.

On the way to the train I pass a dollar bill on the floor but my uncaffeinated reflexes don't realize what it is until I am long past it. Even if I'd noticed in time, I'm not sure I would have picked it up. As a child, I had a joke bill that when folded on the ground looks exactly like U.S. $50, but once picked it up said something to the effect of "jokes on you."

I see Aliza B. walking towards the station as I'm walking inside. I've known since yesterday I'd see her. That's because I saw Aliza yesterday morning, and by some weird destine fate I never see her less than twice in a row.

On the platform, I pass Yael B. as she sips coffee from a blue thermos. She doesn't seem to notice me as I walk by. I also run into Sarah F. and her husband Adam F. They both say hello and walk past me.

Ilana Cowen walks past me too and I say hi. She stops to talk and we get on the train together. Her Mac is in disrepair, and when she asks if I can fix it I tell her that is not my area of expertise. She also tells me about an 1199 rally she attended in Albany yesterday. It’s clear that, this early in the morning, I am too tired to function, let alone carry on a proper conversation, so it’s not surprising when she tells me I ought to be taking a nap.

Leaning against the subway doors, I rest my head on the glass. Ilana somehow enters into conversation with a total stranger, a girl in a long charcoal overcoat and a big blue backpack strapped all about her. It’s hard to hear exactly what they're saying, but I think they are talking about "Night Pleasures," the book the girl is reading. The train has gotten crowded, elbows seem to be protruding everywhere, so I let my eyelids rest until 59th street. Just one more day to get through before the weekend.

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.