Arms in the Air
As I do so frequently these days, I blogged from the subway. From Saturday . . .
***
Some days subway rides are more amusing than others. Sometimes they frighten you. Others...just perform a mixture of piss you off and what the hell; today is a piss off and what the hell kind of day.
Shoving my way onto a Brooklyn bound N should have been a marker of things to come, on this dreary and rain-filled day. The first N, filled to the gills, ate at my skin with the business man two seats over carrying on a cell conversation so loud that my iPod and book did little to give me a bubble of sanity. The blonde across from me, twirled her 20-something locks, and...chatted about how much she drank the night before. Ya know, because . . . like, we all needed to know that that vodka and coke was like so good . . .ya know.
All the while, mariachi players strummed and peddled for our pennies. At some point the MTA announcement advised/begged us to not give money to the pan-handlers. To the outsider this moment is irony. To a New Yorker, this moment is everyday subway behavior.
But...in the midst of all this everyday chaos, I had a six foot tall man stare me down. His shoulder length blonde locks were not attractive, more mountain-man-like, and his worn boots and brown Sherpa suede only reinforced the assumption. He glared at me so hard and menacingly that I couldn't fight the instinctive squirm. He refused to release his glare, and all I could do was avert my eyes to my books and the three hanging bags of suits and ties the man next to me held.
He wore a black ball cap, a sporty leather coat, and his ties were wrapped around the necks of the hangers. I had long eschewed the iPod, as the noise of train gave it's own humor, and I heard him mutter something about leaving "her" for good. I can only presume the wife from the ring line. At least his face was easy on the eyes.
Creepy mountain-man from Queens, as I've seen him a few times on the train, exited. A stop or so later attractive divorcee exited, leaving my left leg cold as he parted and left a void in the seat. Eventually, but not too long in time, I parted at 14th. Hours later, after ambling around Union Square and stopping for a view, I ventured through the raindrops back down the subway stairs.
Elbowing my way onto a train was special but not unheard of. Grabbing an arm-rail so I wouldn't fall was typical too. The adorable three year old, next to his father, was a little too cunning. His big brown eyes averted my way to easily after his father whispered in his ear, he chattered to his father a little too conveniently, and his little fingers reached up to play with my rose ring. Through the iPod, "Be careful the nice, pretty lady . . . " I tuned out. Dude, use your tot to score dates on the subway? Can we say "Hello insanity?" They soon departed, and the herd continued to rustle and build upon itself.
The stench of the goth hipster, with his anorexic waist and greasy hair, was not typical. I buried my nose into my scarf--the real reason fashionable women wear them--and prayed for his departure. At some point the herds shifted and I made my way to a seat until some delightful Asian lady wrenched her boney hand or elbow in my back. She eased into my seat and as I grasped an arm-rail for balance and gasped in pain. Then, just as the tears were drying in the wells of my eyes and my nose had recovered from some questionable hygiene issues with the mass of humanity around me, Asian lady tugged at my coat as her and her friend scooted over and made room for me when someone down aisle left.
Okay, so that was nice. Still . . . if I pee blood tonight we know why.*
Then, four short stops before mine, the crowds finally began to thin and a dapper looking fellow caught my eye. Okay, really I felt my heart stop. For more than a few moments I thought a friend from Istanbul was on the subway. To be more precise, I thought it was my favorite British Canadian via Istanbul. Upon closer examination, dapper man was no Jeff. Jeff is more than a foot taller than me, and this dude was only an inch taller (and no I was not in heels for once). Still . . . saying hello to a foreboding awkward moment on a subway train was avoided. So instead of a loud hello silent looks passed, and I watched the doppelganger fight his heavy eyelids as he sniffled and swigged a DayQuil bottle. Yea, the head cold not sexy either . . .
The announcer called for Astoria Boulevard . . . Climbing down the stairs the heavens continued to open, and the rains came down to push me along the avenue toward my second floor abode serving as a recluse hideout from the crowds, rains, and memories.
*For the record, I did not pee blood. This time.
***
Some days subway rides are more amusing than others. Sometimes they frighten you. Others...just perform a mixture of piss you off and what the hell; today is a piss off and what the hell kind of day.
Shoving my way onto a Brooklyn bound N should have been a marker of things to come, on this dreary and rain-filled day. The first N, filled to the gills, ate at my skin with the business man two seats over carrying on a cell conversation so loud that my iPod and book did little to give me a bubble of sanity. The blonde across from me, twirled her 20-something locks, and...chatted about how much she drank the night before. Ya know, because . . . like, we all needed to know that that vodka and coke was like so good . . .ya know.
All the while, mariachi players strummed and peddled for our pennies. At some point the MTA announcement advised/begged us to not give money to the pan-handlers. To the outsider this moment is irony. To a New Yorker, this moment is everyday subway behavior.
But...in the midst of all this everyday chaos, I had a six foot tall man stare me down. His shoulder length blonde locks were not attractive, more mountain-man-like, and his worn boots and brown Sherpa suede only reinforced the assumption. He glared at me so hard and menacingly that I couldn't fight the instinctive squirm. He refused to release his glare, and all I could do was avert my eyes to my books and the three hanging bags of suits and ties the man next to me held.
He wore a black ball cap, a sporty leather coat, and his ties were wrapped around the necks of the hangers. I had long eschewed the iPod, as the noise of train gave it's own humor, and I heard him mutter something about leaving "her" for good. I can only presume the wife from the ring line. At least his face was easy on the eyes.
Creepy mountain-man from Queens, as I've seen him a few times on the train, exited. A stop or so later attractive divorcee exited, leaving my left leg cold as he parted and left a void in the seat. Eventually, but not too long in time, I parted at 14th. Hours later, after ambling around Union Square and stopping for a view, I ventured through the raindrops back down the subway stairs.
Elbowing my way onto a train was special but not unheard of. Grabbing an arm-rail so I wouldn't fall was typical too. The adorable three year old, next to his father, was a little too cunning. His big brown eyes averted my way to easily after his father whispered in his ear, he chattered to his father a little too conveniently, and his little fingers reached up to play with my rose ring. Through the iPod, "Be careful the nice, pretty lady . . . " I tuned out. Dude, use your tot to score dates on the subway? Can we say "Hello insanity?" They soon departed, and the herd continued to rustle and build upon itself.
The stench of the goth hipster, with his anorexic waist and greasy hair, was not typical. I buried my nose into my scarf--the real reason fashionable women wear them--and prayed for his departure. At some point the herds shifted and I made my way to a seat until some delightful Asian lady wrenched her boney hand or elbow in my back. She eased into my seat and as I grasped an arm-rail for balance and gasped in pain. Then, just as the tears were drying in the wells of my eyes and my nose had recovered from some questionable hygiene issues with the mass of humanity around me, Asian lady tugged at my coat as her and her friend scooted over and made room for me when someone down aisle left.
Okay, so that was nice. Still . . . if I pee blood tonight we know why.*
Then, four short stops before mine, the crowds finally began to thin and a dapper looking fellow caught my eye. Okay, really I felt my heart stop. For more than a few moments I thought a friend from Istanbul was on the subway. To be more precise, I thought it was my favorite British Canadian via Istanbul. Upon closer examination, dapper man was no Jeff. Jeff is more than a foot taller than me, and this dude was only an inch taller (and no I was not in heels for once). Still . . . saying hello to a foreboding awkward moment on a subway train was avoided. So instead of a loud hello silent looks passed, and I watched the doppelganger fight his heavy eyelids as he sniffled and swigged a DayQuil bottle. Yea, the head cold not sexy either . . .
The announcer called for Astoria Boulevard . . . Climbing down the stairs the heavens continued to open, and the rains came down to push me along the avenue toward my second floor abode serving as a recluse hideout from the crowds, rains, and memories.
*For the record, I did not pee blood. This time.
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