All Hallows Ev'en

I saw a lot of people in costumes on the train last night. There was a guy in a white lab coat looking exhausted and miserable, and for a moment I thought that it wasn't a costume at all, and that he was on his was home from work. But then I saw his embroidered monogram: Seymour Bush, Gynecologist. That's when I knew it must be a costume, because no gynecologist would ever leave the hospital in his lab coat and also probably wouldn't take the T.

Two girls next to me wore itsy bitsy dresses with lace-up tops and low-cut chests. I didn't know what they were supposed to be until I realized that the checkerboard pattern against a yellow background identified one as a taxi. And in case I'd missed that, there was a sticker that read "Free Rides" on her right breast. The other dress was red, so I figured that girl was a ladybug or a devil, but I guess it doesn't matter. I've come to accept that in my generation of young American women, Halloween has more to do with what we aren't wearing.

And so I can't help but miss the Halloween of my youth, where we all acted scary and went around exploring our neighbors' porches and entryways and pawning off Smarties on our little sisters.

But I must add that I still had a grand time making up a spooky story about the person hovering over me in a skeleton mask for two stops. And that I wish I could go here: Seven Unique and Terrifying Haunted Attractions at One Location!

Thank You Very Much

This weekend a man playing classical guitar murmured something as I stood waiting for a train. He was looking right at me when he said it, so I figured it was directed at me.

“What’s that?” I asked.
“I said you was the only one I was even thinkin’ about,” he answered.
“Oh.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t seem like the kind of conversation that I ought to pursue, so I stared down the tunnel to look for a train and hoped that would be the end of our encounter.

After a moment he began to play again, but then he suddenly stopped.

“Fuck this, I’m outta here,” he said, standing and working his guitar strap forward over his head. “Fuck you very much!” he announced to the platform. And then, just for good measure, “Fuck you!"

I looked over while he counted his change and packed up, and only then noticed his Dr. Seuss T-Shirt: Would you, could you, with a goat?

Rainbow Brite

Today at Staples, I felt strangely drawn to a display of colored paper. I wanted to consume the paper even though I had no conceivable need for it. I just wanted to make the colors a part of me and carry them out into Boston. A few blocks away from the store, I saw a girl with blue, green, and purple hair. I felt like we had that in common.

Nuclear / Snack Fare

My boyfriend got ahead of me coming over the Mass Ave. bridge on our bikes the other day. By the time I caught up to him, he was pulled over talking to another biker, a fortyish round man with ruddy cheeks and no helmet. I caught the tail end of their exchange.

“Yeah... see that smoke over there? That’s a nuc, right here on campus. That’s the Cambridge nuc!” The man pointed to a hazy vent on an MIT building.
“Oh really? Geez, I never woulda guessed...” said Morgan. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to laugh, not knowing what led into his remark.
“Oh yeah. You spend enough time around campus you get to know things... like MIT’s got the best sandwiches, but then at Harvard you’ve got those handsome scholars bakin’ you cookies...”
“Wow. Thanks for the inside scoop,” I said, confused and sort of thrilled at my timing.
“Have a good day!” Morgan said, starting out home.
“You too.”

As Morgan and I rode away, I pressed him for the information I had missed. Did he know that man? What was his story? Or how did they end up talking?
“He just pulled up and started in on the nuc.” Excellent.

Speaking of Drunk Men on the Train

I just saw an old man with bushy eyebrows alternating between shots from plastic bottles of Listerine and Coca-Cola. His bald head was red and surrounded by a flank of flat, white hair. He caught my attention because there was nobody else on the train saying anything (it was 5:18am), and he was conversing with the air at a volume suitable for a crowded pub. At first he just talked about the red sox and how to serve fried clams and other Bostonian topics, but his oeuvre expanded with time. Here are some highlights:

"You want me to do Billy Joel? I'll do Billy Joel for ya... Sing me a soooooong!! the piano man!!"

Then, setting his coke bottle on the floor in the center of the train: "You can have that! I won't have that!"

And on his way out: "I don't know why she loves me... I ain't handsome... I'm not Elvis Presley..."

All the while, a black woman sat in the center of the train car in a bright yellow turtleneck praying the rosary.

40 Ounces to Freedom

Recently I saw an old drunk man on the train sneaking swigs from a 40 of Steel Reserve. His face was all red and his head wobbled with the motion of the train.

"Judgment day is now!" he repeated under his breath. And then later, a little louder: "No more shit. No more. Judgment day is now." He smirked and gazed lazily at the specks on the floor.

Like Real Stahs

I sat on the bench in front of this picture the other day waiting for a train. A man walked toward me, staring at the picture behind my head.

"Oh, wow! That's Davis Square! I nevah noticed that before. That's the old Somerville theater!"

"Yep," I replied.
"The train used to go right by there. And it musta been Christmas time! Look how they did those lights - they made 'em look like real stahs! How do they do that? Musta been a drive-by."
"Ha, maybe, yeah..." I decided not to point out that the people in the picture were wearing T-Shirts and that the twinkle lights were actually up year-round.

"We used to see movies there for five cents! Now, it's unbelievable. I went to the cinema in Boston a few weeks ago. They musta chahged us like 12 or 15 bucks to see a movie! They're just robbin' us now."
"Yeah. It's $9 now, and that's even cheap for a theater!" I love commiserating about the prices at movie theaters.

"I remembah when I was in boot camp down in New Jersey - a packa cigarettes used to cost thirty-seven cents." He looked like he'd smoked his whole life. His skin was weathered and his cheeks were dark and hollow.

"Wow! And what is it now?" I asked as the train pulled up.

"Nine bucks. I still smoke, and I shoulda quit a long time ago for that price." We both headed into the train. He went left and sat down. For some reason, it seemed too intimate to sit right next to him. I started to go right, but then I realized there were no other seats. So I thought, 'what the hell,' and we continued our conversation side by side.

"Maybe that's the idea," I offered.

"Nah, they don't want cha ta quit. They just raise it little by little, so ya stay addicted, and then they just rob ya." He looked down at the lettering on my Ski Big Sky shirt.

"You from Montana then?" he asked.

"Nope, just went there a lot when I was younger."

"I went to Montana for work corps when I was a teenager. They used to tell us about the black bears in the mountains to keep us from runnin' off! Hah, I tell ya, I prefer the army to that place any day." I laughed. "So where ya from?"

"North Dakota."

"Wow! What brought ya out here?"

"School."

"Oh yeah? Ya in college?"

"Not anymore. Just finished, actually," I replied.

"What? You must be what, like, 20 years old?"

"Nope, 24."

"No way! You got a baby face, miss. Well, this is my stop. You take care. Be careful," he said.

"Okay," I replied. "Nice talking to you."

Be careful, baby face. Because sitting down with a stranger out of genuine curiosity is what we teach children not to do.

Freegan

Last weekend I was approached by three people in yellow T-shirts while I waited on my bike for the red light to change.

"Give the lady biker a free T-Shirt!" said one of them.

"Yeah! Please do!" I said. I really, really love free stuff.

"I'm gonna give the lady biker a flower, too!" said another.

"Okay!" I said, awkwardly failing to open my messenger bag.

"Excellent. We'll even help you put them in this bag," said the man with the flowers.

"Wow! What service. This is so great. Also, please don't steal my wallet while your back there." I knew my wallet was well-buried in the secret pocket, but you can't be too careful when a stranger is digging through your bag.

"I wouldn't do that. I'll just put it on top here," he said, opening the flap of my bag as the light turned back to red.

"I trust you," I said in my Rose-from-Titanic voice.

"Hah, okay, well I trust you too," he laughed. "Oh look, lunch! You're all ready to go now," he said and closed my bag.

"Good, because I've got a big day ahead of me."

"Well, enjoy it!"

"I will now - thanks guys!" I said and pedaled away toward work.

When I got to the studio, it was like Christmas opening my bag. The T-shirt is ginormous; I think it's an XXXL, and it says "All you care about is my sperm." It's perfect. I put the flower on the countertop, as a kind of 'pay it forward' gesture.

Here's a plug for the nice folks at http://increaseyourchances.org/. Thanks for the T-shirt and flowers and the best five minutes of my weekend.

Deja Vu

Today I recognized the title of the book a woman sitting across from me was reading: Slavery by Another Name. I saw the cover, black with white lettering, and suddenly remembered having seen it the week before in the exact same spot. I looked up at the reader, and I realized this was the same woman sitting across from me, reading the same book as last week. I considered speaking up to acknowledge the coincidence, but decided against it, considering the fact that we were almost to the station where I would switch trains. When we arrived, I ran out to catch the next train and took an open seat among many. I waited for the train to pull out, but the driver was waiting for more passengers. As I watched the crowd file into my car, who should I see but the Slavery by Another Name lady. And she took the seat right next to me. I almost said something like, "Hello again," but then I realized that she's never looked up from Slavery by Another Name to notice me. And I didn't want to make her uncomfortable. Especially now that we were in such close proximity to each other. So I just smiled down at my hands, charmed by the strange sensation of chance.

Antiquing

On a rainy vacation day in Vermont, it seemed appropriate to find shelter in a local antique dealer's home. We were hailed in off the road by a big flag that read "OPEN" and another "Antiques." The blue house was complete with a barn to each side, an old moldy tent, and two floors, all overflowing with furniture pieces and knick-knacks. The driveway was lined with rusty chairs and sculptures, all of which had seen many more rainy days in Vermont than I. An assortment of bells clinked as we entered the house, and I found myself gripping a tennis ball when I turned to close the door behind me.

We started tentatively toward the living room to our left and were greeted by a long-haired man in earth tones and working boots.

"Ever been here before?" he asked us.

"Nope, first timers," I replied.

"Ah, okay. Welp, we got all the stuff you see out here, we got stuff in the barn out back and the shed, we got stuff out there under the tent... Oh, sometimes you might find stuff inside things," he added, opening a china cabinet to reveal its hodge podge contents. "You can dig around and find some great stuff. You lookin' for anything particular?"

"Not really. Just lookin'."

"Okay. Well, don't be afraid to holler at us if you have questions. And don't be afraid to dig." He started out of the room but immediately returned to add, "Everything's on sale, too, so if ya want somethin', tell us."

"Great! Thanks so much!"

Once we were left with the goods themselves, I tried my best to focus on one thing at a time. There were three rubber stamps, a toy typewriter, rusted wrenches and screws, a row of leather jackets, and beautiful, smoky silverware. Each room was arranged by theme, which was appropriate because it was a house, so living room stuff was in the living room, games in the den, etc. Upstairs, we found the master bedroom. In the center was a bed frame, with a lovely headboard and floral sheets hanging over the top. There were chests of drawers and a desk with vanity mirror. Clothes were hanging in the closet. A dusty white nighty hung next to a long purple coat, with shoes underneath to match. It was like going through my grandparents' attic, but while that gave me information about people I knew and loved, this gave me clues to a strange, open-ended mystery. I felt like I was supposed to be a vulture - to want to see everything and find the buried treasure, but I couldn't shake the history of these private items. Where did the lady wear her white purse with the gold chain? What color lipstick did she keep inside?

After a little while, a petite woman came upstairs. She was a sweet person with a salt-and-pepper mane and a weathered face.

"How are you doing up here?" she asked.

"Great!" I replied.

"Where ya from?"

"Boston. Well, we live in Somerville."

"Oh really? I lived in Somerville for years! That was when I was with my first husband; yeah, this is my second marriage," she looked up to signify some explanation. "But I loved Somerville. It's convenient, close to Cambridge, but it's quieter, like a neighborhood. When we moved out here, it was one of those life-changing things, you know?" I nodded. "So are you guys finding anything?" she asked.

"Not yet. There's just so much!"

"Yeah. Well, it's only your first visit. Let us know if you like anything, because prices are tweakable."

I told her that I liked one of the trunks, but didn't think I could fit it in my car.

"Well, we have loads of them if you want something smaller. Did you check out back?"

"No, we've only been in here so far."

"Oh, well, look under the tent and check in the barn. There's a flashlight out there on your way in."

"Okay," I said.

"And we may have more if you come back, too. You know, this business is always changing. It used to be people were buying up all the linens. You'd get a bunch in and then people would dig through them and want to get there hands on them all, but now nobody wants them anymore. So you gotta pick and choose when you're on a pick up," she laughed. "You have to try to find the right things. But we've got lots of trunks in and out of here."

"Okay, well, we'll check out there and see what we find."

We thanked her and headed out to the barn. The rain had seeped through and damaged a lot of the pieces - bed frames had turned orange and blankets brown. By the time the man came back out to show me all the trunks under the tent, the rain had let up a little bit, and we were ready to hit the road again. But he worked hard to make the sale. He had to sell while he had us. That was the nature of his business. But we were just looking.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I love being out in the first cool days of October. No color changes yet, but already it's invigorating to gasp for that slightly cool air, to collapse the crunchy leaves with my steps, to have the sun as my ally again. I drink it in. The seasons sustain me.

The Wisdom of Children

"It's cold," said the mother. "You'd better put on your jacket."
"Mama, if I put my jacket on, how will it make you warmer?"

Touchee, kid.

Lady Plaid

I've come to realize that the gender of a flannel shirt can be found in the color and sheen of its buttons.

I've Seen Men In Skirts Before,

but this one was a peculiar sight. He wore a pleated, floor-length number with a bold floral pattern. His top was a striped jacket, oversized in length and width. On his head, he wore a make-shift veil. It was essentially a speckled piece of purple fabric, but he had fixed it to his head with a band so that it flowed down like a sheet of hair. A neon blue feather ornamented his headgear, looking a little cockeyed and a little royal. Under all this he wore Converse sneakers. The man was probably around twenty-five years old, and he was hugely theatrical under his drapery, like a mime - every movement was accompanied by a grand flourish. It was sensory overload watching him enter the train; I wanted to push pause on him so that I could have enough time to take him in, but propriety and physics got the better of me, so I stared instead at his reflection in the window in front of us. He had caught his reflection too, and whether his aim was to entertain me or himself, his face became a flashing screen, switching rapidly from surprised to distraught to inquisitive, and so on. He paused intermittently to take puffs from the hot pink feather he held between two fingers of his left hand. It was a shame that he only stuck around for two stops.