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.

Concentric Circles

I head downstairs and find my building’s superintendant in front of 115, chatting with some other supers. I get to the station and I can hear the train coming, so I make a run for the turnstiles and get down the stairs just in time.

The woman sitting next to me is wearing black pants and a denim coat which obscures her shirt. She is middle aged, with curly blond hair, a copy of AM New York on her lap. She is eating a Danish and sipping coffee, which smells good. Her earrings are composed of several loops, each one progressively smaller and encompassed by its predecessor. They remind me of a conversation I once had with Rachel, who still lives in my neighborhood. She pointed out that friendships are like concentric circles, we have our best and closest friends, the innermost circle. Then some good friends, the second circle, and so on until we get to the outermost circle of random acquaintances.

Tired

I get into the elevator together with my next door neighbor and as we ride we discuss willow trees. Out on the street an old man pushing a cart wishes me a happy holiday, and just before entering the subway station I spot Rabbi B. He says hello and I wave back.

Just inside the tunnel, there is a girl sitting on the floor with her back to the wall, reading. At first I think she is homeless, but she is not dressed very homelessly. She is wearing jeans, and a long sleeve white shirt with a black vest over it. A yellow scarf is fashionably draped around her neck.

Talia L. is on the platform and rides the train with me. She gets a seat but I am not quick enough, so I stand near her. Meyer B. is also in the car, towards the other side. Talia and I talk about work and how tired we always feel. We commiserate most of the ride, but before getting off at 59th we also talk about what we did last summer.

Bring Out the Leather

Today I am wearing my leather jacket. I bought it near Lake George a few years ago. At the time, I had a goatee and often wore a black wool hat in the winter, which my friends thought made me look scary. Coupled with shiny black leather, I made for a splendid gangster, so at the store they limited me to brown suede. There was one such jacket which I really liked, but it was the last one and my friend Koby had spotted it before me. He bought it and I settled for this one instead, but it turned out to be the best second-choice I’ve ever made. The jacket has been privy to more compliments than any other outwear I own. It also turned out that Koby’s jacket didn’t fit him too well, and so, after selling it to me for $20 later on, I ended up with both of them anyways.

Outside my building I see Adam F. returning from synagogue. I just met him this past weekend, and he waves hello. I ate together with him and his wife a few times during the first two days of Sukkot, and I feel we all had a chance to bond. They have an adorable son and a questionable babysitter.

I cross to the west side of Bennett and see Rabbi H. from the fourth floor of my building. I also Rabbi B. back on the other side of the street. John E. is up ahead at the corner of Overlook and 186th.

When I get to the platform, I see John again and pass him. Kara G. is also there. At 59th, I run into Doron S. He doesn’t see me, so I tap him and say hello as I quickly walk by. Josh S. is on the D. train when I board, but all the way on the other side of the car so we don’t speak. My hands are warm inside my leather pockets and I am the first one out of the train at Rockefeller, galloping up the stairs to the exit.

A Fruit and a Boot

I’ve got to get to work on time today and the elevator is taking an extraordinary long time to arrive at my floor. It finally appears with two young gents, dressed in traditional Yeshivish garb, standing inside. They are carrying the lulav and etrog, which Orthodox Jews integrate into the morning prayer services during the week of Sukkot.

After a relatively warm weekend, the chill seems to have returned and I zip my jacket when I walk outside. Someone has left a teddy bear at the front of the building; if it were a bit colder and had white fur it would pass for a snowman.

I get to the train station and board the A, and sit next to a middle-aged man with graying white hair. Underneath his suit is a cleanly pressed white shirt and a tie which, though likely unintentional, match his red and gray Zoom Air sneakers. Across the way is a tall blond woman, attractive and in knee high brown leather boots. The train is not very crowded, and she easily takes the cake. That is, until she reveals a make-up case and starts to work on her eyelashes. It’s one of those things no one is really meant to see as it happens, and the publicity of the display brings her rapidly from beauty to shame.

Snip, Snip

It’s strange how I’ve called in late this morning, so that I can attend the bris of my friends’ newborn son, and yet I’ll probably arrive at work earlier than usual. When I leave the bris, which is at the synagogue just across the street from my building, I run into Eric B. who is walking outside. He nods when he sees me and I wave hello in response. Further on, at 186th, I see another familiar face. I don’t know his name, but I met him a few years ago at my friend Talia’s dinner table, and he is a certified lunatic. I don’t bother to say hi and keep walking towards the train station.

Normally, I don’t mind signs posted along the street on lampposts or the big blue mailboxes. They are there to relay information which is, presumably, of interest to someone, if not to me. What I can’t stand, however, are the long forgotten, long irrelevant adverts. Case in point: a flyer about garage sale that took place last week, a poster describing an open house two weeks ago, and a giant placard asking me to vote for a such-and-such candidates, months after the election. Doesn’t the Department of Sanitation employ individuals to clean up this mess of expiration? I enter the station, quickly realizing this could be my last opportunity to moonlight as a masked vigilante, keeping Manhattan streets safe from aging signs while the rest of the city sleeps.

Sticky Situations

I walk outside and realize how incredibly chilly the morning air has become these past few days. Right in front of my building, Emily T. is pushing a baby stroller and chatting on the phone. She smiles at me and continues her conversation, something about “the videos” and she “can’t believe it!”

Halfway through the tunnel inside the train station, a commotion begins behind me. Someone calls out for the formation of a single file, and I turn around to see a fairly large high school class lining up. When I was in high school, we never took public transportation on trips, and it still astonishes me to see New York city classrooms transplanted to MTA property.

On the platform, I see my friend Tamar’s brother, who’s name I don’t know. I also run into Miriam C. and we ride the train together, talking about holiday plans, the best kosher eateries in Midtown Manhattan, and some of the stickiest situations we’ve ever found ourselves in. Anyone who says the quintessential morning commute is definitively spent alone simply hasn’t heard Miriam’s stories.