After a rough, sleepless night I am almost too tired to go to work but at least I am on time when I leave. I head downstairs and when I get out of the elevator, Ken H. gets in and we say hello.
There are two Orthodox Jewish girls loitering at the corner of 186th and Bennett. They both look familiar and I'm almost certain I've been introduced to one of them at some point in the past.
On Overlook, I spot the really tall girl who is friends with my friend Anna. She is meticulously dressed in a black top, plaid skirt, and shiny black high heels. Her glasses frame is funky, and her red leather bag adds the final touch.
Down at the platform, I see Rabbi B. He is a brilliant man, scholarly in Bible and a doctor of Math as well. I'll never forget how often he hosted me at his table during college. He says good morning and I respond in kind, then keep walking towards my spot.
I pass a woman, in beige pants and a brown flowery shirt who at first appears to be wiping her nose on her sleeve. Closer inspection, however, reveals that she is actually trying to peer into her shirt.
When the train arrives, it’s pretty crowded but I'm still able to get a seat. Somewhere near 125th street, as I'm emailing my friend Matt, who now lives in Israel, I hear someone calling my name. Its Tamar E. and her son Ezra R. She is sporting a Kindle, a gift from her job. It’s one of the perks of working for a literary agency. I work for a bank and wonder if they will ever give me money as a perk.
Since Tamar is sitting a few seats away, I get up to talk to her. She is on her way to drop Ezra off at her mom's and then head to work. Ezra, who is just a few months old, looks adorable all curled up and asleep in her lap. Tamar and I chat until 59th street, and I get off thinking this could be my big chance. She's a literary agent, and she knows she's going to be in my blog tonight, so she'll read it! It better be damned well written.
Showing posts with label Tamar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tamar. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 15
Monday, June 29
Baggage
I have a small “wheelie” suitcase with me today. Few things are worse than having to carry baggage of any sort on the subway, and for me anything heavier than a magazine counts as luggage. This has put me into a mood of sorts so I’m hoping it’s a quiet morning.
Outside my building Baruch H. is in his car, pulling out while talking to someone else through the window. Baruch is one of four volunteer EMT's that live in my building, and his car is equipped with emergency lights. I think about my own flashing car-lights, the difference being that mine are detachable and yellow, while his are red and typically accompanied by a powerful siren. I am not licensed for sirens, but I remember once trying to simulate them by asking my friend, who has a particularly loud voice, to scream out the window as we drove through the neighborhood.
At the station I see Tamar V. inside the elevators that go to Fort Washington Ave. I wonder if she sees me and continue down to the platform.
One bench is inhabited by a pretty, blond girl in her early twenties. She has a shopping bag that says "365", and her purse, white and clean, has a metallic strap that looks like a giant link necklace. Her shorts are grey, her shoes, with bowties above the toes, are purple, and she has a pink bowtie in her hair that does not match. I am most taken by her shirt. It’s lime green with pictures of eyes. The same single eye, actually, repeated many times, in different sizes, as a pattern across the front. I stare, trying to fathom how this can seem stylish to anyone.
There is another blond nearby. She is older, with a long flowery skirt and a coffee thermos. She is reading a book of sheet music. Occasionally she turns away from the book and looks vacantly upwards to her left, and I believe she is humming the tune in her head. My friend Tanya can hear a tune once and later play it perfectly on the piano, and I suppose this woman can do the same by just reading the notes.
The train arrives and I drag my wheelie on board. In a crowded subway or even on the street, I am ruthless with my wheelie. Stick your toe in its path and there will be no apology when I run it over.
Outside my building Baruch H. is in his car, pulling out while talking to someone else through the window. Baruch is one of four volunteer EMT's that live in my building, and his car is equipped with emergency lights. I think about my own flashing car-lights, the difference being that mine are detachable and yellow, while his are red and typically accompanied by a powerful siren. I am not licensed for sirens, but I remember once trying to simulate them by asking my friend, who has a particularly loud voice, to scream out the window as we drove through the neighborhood.
At the station I see Tamar V. inside the elevators that go to Fort Washington Ave. I wonder if she sees me and continue down to the platform.
One bench is inhabited by a pretty, blond girl in her early twenties. She has a shopping bag that says "365", and her purse, white and clean, has a metallic strap that looks like a giant link necklace. Her shorts are grey, her shoes, with bowties above the toes, are purple, and she has a pink bowtie in her hair that does not match. I am most taken by her shirt. It’s lime green with pictures of eyes. The same single eye, actually, repeated many times, in different sizes, as a pattern across the front. I stare, trying to fathom how this can seem stylish to anyone.
There is another blond nearby. She is older, with a long flowery skirt and a coffee thermos. She is reading a book of sheet music. Occasionally she turns away from the book and looks vacantly upwards to her left, and I believe she is humming the tune in her head. My friend Tanya can hear a tune once and later play it perfectly on the piano, and I suppose this woman can do the same by just reading the notes.
The train arrives and I drag my wheelie on board. In a crowded subway or even on the street, I am ruthless with my wheelie. Stick your toe in its path and there will be no apology when I run it over.
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