After a week of riding up and down VA, MD, and DC highways in luxury cars, the subway is not a welcomed ride.
I stand on the platform, head bopping, lost in my thoughts and my music.
The train arrives and I take a seat, happy that it's relatively empty. I don't scan the car for strange people. I immediately close my eyes and let the music envelope me.
I realize the train has been immobile for quite some time. I open my eyes to see a tiny old woman push her way onto the train, hitting people with her tiny shopping cart, filled with tattered bags and papers. Her long, gray, hair is a tangled mess and it looks as if she has attempted to put it in a ponytail. Her clothes are dirty and the large collar and bell shaped pants give her the look of a 70's sitcom character. She sits down crossing her legs and arms. She purses her lips, looking around, disdainfully as the conductor announces the last stop on the train will be 96th Street. She's trying to make eye contact with anyone so she can strike up a conversation. I avert my eyes but the young man standing near me is not so lucky. She slaps her thigh engaging in one sided dialogue, complaining about the MTA. The guy, a rocker Mexican with large holes in his ears, tattoos and spikes is staring at her, nodding occasionally and looking around as if to say "Help me".The train still hasn't moved and I'm tempted to get off and take a cab. Of course as soon as I get ready to stand the doors close. I close my eyes again and lean back as it pulls into the next stop. I feel a tap on my arm. I open my eyes slowly to see a guy in a flannel shirt and unshaven beard, smiling waving a party flyer. I smile politely and shake my head no. He's talking. He's not particularly unattractive but definitely not my type. I'm looking at him not hearing and not caring what he's saying. Why is he still trying to shove his flyer at me?
Now I'm annoyed. I'm tempted to snatch the flyer and toss it on the floor. I growl, "I said no thanks".
My iPod chooses to die at this very moment. "..cause I think your beautiful and different.", he's saying. Is he for real? Having a whole conversation with me?
" This is 96th Street. This is the last stop. You can take a shuttle bus, blah blah blah". I jump up and make a mad dash for the door. Flyer boy is yelling after me about my number. I'm not interested in taking the bus. I'm gonna catch a cab.
At the top of the subway stairs, on a crate, sits a man with one leg, sipping coffee. His prosthetic leg, with sock and sneaker sat on the ground beside him.
Only in NY. Welcome home to me!
*ding dong*
Thank you for riding the MTA
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