Monday, Monday

Throwing out the garbage is always a decent way to commence the week (although one must ask: why wasn’t it already thrown out the night before?).  Downstairs in the basement I run into Willie and we chat about Mondays. No one likes going back to work on a Monday, and no matter how much rest one has gotten on Saturday and Sunday, the start of the week is always tiresome.

Outside, dozens of children are on their way to school.  I walk to the A station and pass Ezra B. at the bottom of the steps.  He is engrossed in the New York Times.

I am still walking towards my spot when Sara C. sneaks up behind me.  As with Willie, we also talk about Mondays and I ask her if she went rafting yesterday with a bunch of our friends.  She doesn’t like rafting anymore, and reminds me of our rafting trip last summer (or was it two summers ago), when I almost tore my rotator cuff and had to spend a few weeks in physical therapy.  We also talk about fantasy novels, which she enjoys reading, though she thinks Lord of the Rings is a bit childish and the poetry far too long for her patience.  I solemnly admit to skipping some of the poetry myself, but remain steadfast that it is my favorite trilogy both in book and in movie form.

As I’m talking to Sara, I notice Moshe L. on the platform, in the distance.  Sara and I board the train together, but we find seats apart and I don’t speak to her again until we get off at 59th.  I transfer promptly to the B train, where one stop later I run into Yaffa Z. just as she gets off.

Meatballs and Sewage

It’s always difficult going back to work after a three day weekend. It’s cloudy when I get downstairs, and I think of “Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs,” which I saw last night. If meatballs really rained down from the sky, would they be kosher?

A biker passes me on Bennett Avenue, huffing as she races up the hill. I realize that my bike to work once-a-week initiative has fallen to once-every-two-months and resolve to get back on track, literally. I drop a few letters at the mailbox on 186th and Overlook, and notice a kid with a Mohawk haircut nearby. He is about 14 years old, with a blue shirt, white pants, and a black jacket, and enters the station behind me.

On the platform I see Moshe L. He is reading and does not look up to say hello. I board the train, watch TV most of the way, and when I get off at 59th there is a putrid smell of sewage that makes me gag. I rush to get onto the D train as soon as it arrives on the platform and vow to leave New York City once and for all. Soon.

Lotus

I'm already late when I leave my apartment at 9:00 AM, mostly due to sleeplessness and tardiness. I drop off my laundry and carefully avoid a large pile of broken glass on the way to the train station. Today is another Sudoku day, I've brought with me the book Genna gave me a year and a half ago and I'm determined to finish it. The puzzles get progressively harder and even though I can average 3-4 per ride I'm still in the "easy" section.

In the tunnel leading to the station I see Josh S. leaving the train. He doesn't wave or say hello and I continue on to the platform. I have numerous "usual spots" on the platform, depending on whether I'm getting breakfast, stopping at the gym, or going straight to work. I'm going straight today and at this usual spot I see an unidentified Jewish girl saying her morning prayers. Also here, ironically, is Moshe G. who until last week was the rabbinic intern at the local synagogue. I don't think he knows who I am and so I don't bother to say hello.

On the train there a white haired man is meditating. His hands are resting on his knees, palms up, his index fingers touching thumbs. His back is in perfect posture and his eyes are closed. When I sit next to him I try not to disrupt his lotus energy but he open his eyes ever so slightly and turns them towards me without moving his head. When he returns to his pose, I snap a few shots and wonder if he suspects that he is the subject at the other end of the shutter’s sound. He doesn't stir, and I give up and play Sudoku.