No. 1

He's wearing a navy baseball cap low over his face, a white Hanes tee beneath his black zip-up hoodie, light stone wash jeans, and black asics. I can hardly see his face because he hunches over a crossword in a puzzler book. He lifts his heel to secure the book when he writes an answer. He puts it back down when he thinks.

(This is the first installment of the PNP series.)

Boys and Girls

A Saturday night on public transportation is like a holding room for the club. I watched a group of four guys and a group of four girls in the station. The girls wore heels and bite-sized dresses, over which they folded their curls and arms to keep from freezing. One girl kept her right arm outstretched to find a better angle for her unceasing attempts at self-portraits of the group. The boys wore polos and passed around an Aquafina bottle filled with orange liquid. The girls eventually gave up on her arm-span and had one of the boys take the picture. It seemed that they were perfect together.

Only it turned out that they weren't together. Once we sat on the train, I saw that they were total strangers, except of course that their social lives had molded them to fit very well together. The conversation was dull and disconnected, and representatives of each group pretended to get to know the other while cracking camouflaged inside jokes to their counterparts.

"You guys all got nice shoes," said the boys.
"Thanks," said the girls. "Where are you guys going?"
"Where are you guys going?" Three boys mysteriously chuckled. Another round of orange liquid.
"We asked you first." The girls cackle.

It's like tennis, but funnier.

As I left South Station, I had a hard time discerning all the signs for the different train and bus lines. What I wanted was the exit, but I ended up activating an alarm trying to go backwards through the turnstile just in time for the boys to notice.

"Woah, wrong way!" said the loud one.
"Yeah, how embarrassing."
"You are the biggest loser - goodbye," he said, in a drunk and slightly boggled reality-TV reference. I decided not to engage. We all stepped onto the gargantuan escalator. Near the top, the loud boy had a sudden change of heart.
"I'm sorry," he said to me, feigning remorse. "I didn't mean to call you a loser. You're not the biggest loser." This was all part of the boys and girls game. His role was to throw insults at me through a charming smile until I simply couldn't resist any longer. But I don't like to play that game.
"No, I know," I replied.
"Oooh, so... Wait, are you saying I'm the biggest loser?"
"No." I replied, and our paths diverged toward our respective Saturday nights.

Wisdom from the Street

While this advice wasn't given directly to me, it is too good not to post. A homeless man told my friend Dahlia this last week at a train station:

"That train's not gonna come when you want it to, but it'll be right on time."

You're Too Kind

Life Alive

My little sister and I ate in the basement of a crunchy hippie restaurant last month. There was a woman eying us from across the room. Emily thought she was a psychic, and judging by her hanging shawls and stack of cards, I thought so too. She wore a headpiece with draping gold discs, something between a crown and a hat, like an African princess. It was a distracting thing to have in one's peripheral vision, and eventually I decided to ask her what she was about.

"Goddess card readings," she answered. "It's really fun - we just see what card you draw and talk about what it might mean for your life. I've been doing this for many years, and everyone gets just the right card." With two sisters in the middle of life crises, she had hit the jackpot.

She handed us the stack of cards. We both drew from the middle of the deck.
Emily uncovered Aphrodite, the goddess of Love.
For me, Oshun, goddess of Sensuality.
Two sisters, sixty possibilities, and this is what we get.
"Amazing that two sisters should draw this pair!" she remarked. "So... tell me what you think it means."

We were both silent. We didn't care what we thought; we wanted her to tell us. - Everything. I would have let her make all of my big decisions right then and there. But instead, she talked of self-love and hot baths and fresh-cut flowers. But the reading still produced my answers. It just happened to be that I already knew them.

Origami

I watched a girl about my age take a piece of patterned red paper out of her bag. It was the same size as a gum wrapper, but much denser. She began folding it, in half one way, then another, flipping and turning it in a entrancing rhythm of fold, crease, fold, crease. She knew the pattern well, so much that her field of attention picked up my staring.

"What are you making?" I asked, caught.
"A crane. If you make a thousand, you get a wish."
"Oh yeah, I think I've heard of that! How many do you have?"
"I think four hundred now."
"Have you been going a while?"
"About five months," she said, as she shaped the beak of the paper creature. "Do you want this one?"

Obviously I did. I thanked her profusely and examined it before tucking it in the pocket of my raincoat. It's beautiful, with the paper's bold colors intertwining along its creases, which are impeccable despite the nonchalance of the maker. I wondered about her 1000-crane wish as she walked up the stairs, her head tilted slightly to the left.

Profiles of Normal People in the Present Tense Explained

It occurred to me that many of the people I feature on my blog are eccentric. While eccentricity will always be the key to my heart, I'd like to share some accounts of people who are not so bold - people who blend in. This series will be called Profiles of Normal People in the Present Tense. Stay tuned!

Civil Disobedience

Freaky Friday

People hate cockroaches because they are creepy and scuttle around at the speed of light. But the last time I saw one, I had a thought: What if that is simply their response to seeing humans, which is the only time we see them? And if that's the case, what must they think of us?

"Gross! Humans! They scream and point and hop in place!"

Gina

"Good morning," she said, stopping me at the door to an empty 6am Au Bon Pain.
"Morning," I replied.
"Spare some change on the way out?"
"Maybe," I replied. "Oh no, I don't have any cash. I have to pay with my debit card."
"Would you buy me a cup of coffee in there?" How logical. Of course, my mind searched first for how that could possibly inconvenience me, but I couldn't come up with anything.
"Sure," I said. I stopped myself on the other side of the door. "What size?"
"Just a small," she said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."

I watched her as I slopped oatmeal into a paper cup. She looked like an unlikely candidate to be begging for breakfast. She had a nice leather jacket, floral collared shirt, tasteful makeup on her face. But there was something in her eyes that said she hadn't just forgotten her wallet.

"Do you want anything to eat?"
"Yes," she said, moving toward the pastries.
She set her cinnamon bun on the counter next to my oatmeal.
"We're together," I said. I watched the man swipe my card and thought of the extra five imaginary dollars for Gina. Spare change. Not as grand a gesture as a five dollar bill - way easier. But sad to be so near someone and her broken eyes.
"May God bless you a thousand times over, forever and ever, Amen."
"Thank you," I said.  She ate in the front window seat.
"You have a blessed weekend now, you hear?"
"You too. Bye Gina." 

Story Time

Last week there was a stroller crowding the middle of the train during rush hour. Seated in front of the stroller was a young mother with her little daughter on her lap. The toddler sucked her thumb and wore a fuzzy brown jacket that had earned her the nickname "Bear." The train was loaded with people, but all were silent except the mom, who read aloud to her bear in sing-song tones. I was lulled by the stillness of the train and the smooth rhythm of the story. The book was called "Little Bear," obviously a favorite. I tried not to stare, but as I averted my gaze, I realized that others were struggling with the same thing. Many people had their eyes glued to the page of the book, watching the pictures as the story went by. 

Miscellaneous Hat Day

Waiting for a train, an old man opened a USPS flat rate envelope over his head. He spread it open, looked inside, and calmly reached the crown of his head between the folds. He was still wearing it when my train left. A few seats down from where I sat, I saw another white-haired man in a shower cap.

Did I miss the memo on this?

Down the Rabbit Hole

My friend Katie and I stumbled upon a traveling circus in the middle of Downtown Crossing. A passerby saw us eyeing the box office and handed us a pair of tickets.

"These'll getcha in if you wanna see! Intermission will be over in about two minutes."

And just like that, we were at the circus. It was pitch black inside - the better to sell kid-friendly glow sticks. Strobing neon spotlights illuminated the packed stadium and its bouquets of cotton candy. It's astonishing sometimes how much life is like Alice in Wonderland.

"You're late!" said the ticket man.
"We're very late!" said Katie.

Three pony-riding goats, an amazing balancing man, and a geriatric clown later, we headed back out the main gate.

"The show's not over yet, ladies."
It never is, I thought.

Death Wish

Wednesday was an incredible day. The sun shone warmly through the cold spring, and I decided to wait outside while my laundry tumbled. I lay down on a hilltop park bench to feel the heat on my face, chatting to my mom on the phone, with nowhere to be and nothing to do.

And then I heard screaming in the square below. Repetitive, rhythmic words, like a mantra. I couldn't make them out, so I sat up and went to peer over the side of the hill. A man stood in the middle of the traffic rotary, under the same perfect sun, screeching, crying out, "Run me over! Run me over! Run me over! Run me over!"

First Impressions

A guy across from me was sketching people on the train. He may have thought he was undercover, but his motives were obvious. I wondered how the portraits looked as I watched his eyes shift between my neighbors and the squiggly strokes of his pencil. I checked in periodically to see who he was drawing, but the angle of his Moleskine kept the pages out of sight. To be honest, I wanted to see myself in there - a stranger's projection of me. But in my curiosity, I couldn't be still, and quickdraw doesn't work well on a moving target.

She Got Game

My sister, Mom, and I got in the habit of walking to and from dinner while we were in Florida. One night we walked by a boy playing basketball in the street. He was still shooting around when we passed again four hours later. Emily and Mom were both on their cell phones as we approached him, so no one seemed to mind that I ran ahead to play ball.

He was elated to finally have an opponent, even if it was a person in a dress. He pulled all his left-right-fakey moves, but I am very serious about boxing out, and I put up a good fight. My family hovered at the end of the street while we chased each other around, neither of us making any shots. We chatted while we played.

"Do your siblings like basketball?" I asked.
"I don't know, kinda. My brother's at a party tonight," he answered.
"Okay. Well I'm pretty sure basketball is more fun than that."
"Yeah probably," he said as I scored my second point. It was 2-2 in a game to 3. "Are you sure you're not, like, a secret basketball wizard?" He may or may not have said that part. I can't be totally sure.

"So do you like living on the beach?" I asked, studying the large beach house behind us.
"Eh, it's a rental. My dad's back in Miami, but my mom moved us here after the divorce," he said.
"Not a bad place to be," I replied as he scored the winning point.
"Nah, not bad. So how long you guys in town?"
"Just until Monday morning," I said.
"Well, maybe I'll see you back out here," he suggested.
"Yeah, maybe," I replied, falling back into step with my family.

Love Dollar

This week at work, a girl handed me a one dollar bill with writing all over it and then went into class. Around the border, the dollar says:

"You are always in my heart! My little puppy. I love you so much! Love, little McVeggie! I'll miss you! I'll think about you this weekend!"

On the back:

"Love makes the world go round. Love sweet love! Love is all we need!"

Some parts of the dollar were also altered, so that it read, "IN (LOVE) WE TRUST" and (You're my #)1.

I thought about Where's George dollars and how money moves all over, all the time. On her way out of class, I asked the girl where she'd gotten the dollar.

"The truth?" she asked.
"Sure," I answered.
"I went through old shoe boxes today. It was leftover from an old relationship, and I was like, 'Well, it's' a dollar,' so I brought it here..."
"... to let go - to pass it on," I offered.
"Exactly," she said.

I haven't spent it yet, but look for Puppy and McVeggie coming soon to a cash register near you.

Paparazzi

A violin player was in Park Street Station playing some fast and flawless Bach. The people watching him had formed a horseshoe. One man caught my eye in his dirty old clothes because he was taping the performance on a golden iPhone. I don't know where the man came from, but his appearance suggested a life on the street, and the contrast to his shiny cellular was comical. He started on one end of the horseshoe and panned his camera all the way around the circle, stepping carefully so as not to disturb the shot. When he'd passed in front of the whole crowd, he tapped the screen to exit video and stepped onto a train in one fluid motion. The train carried him right away, as if on cue.

The Onion Man

Later at breakfast, a man passed us carrying a crate of onions. As he walked, he spoke to the patio at Country Ham n' Eggs. "I used to rob houses, now I rob onions. I'm the onion man. Good morning, ladies."
"Good morning," we replied.

Country Ham & Eggs

During our Florida trip, little sister, ma, and I woke up early one morning. We decided to beat the rush for Sunday breakfast and sat ourselves on the patio of a restaurant at the pier. Our server came right to the table.

"Coffee today?" The magic words.
"You're good," I replied.
"Well hon, I been doing this thirty years now. I know what you want when you walk in at 6am."

She brought us three ceramic mugs, and we all reached into the little dish of creamers. Em and my Mom take their coffee with cream; I like to stack and unstack the little buckets. Two old men power-walked right up to the gate in their jogging shorts and sweatbands. They sat.

"Coffee gentlemen?" Like a pro.
"Decaf," they replied simultaneously, still panting a little.
"You ladies ready to order?" she asked from their table. I needed a minute. I looked at my mom. Mom needed a minute. "That's fine, take your time," she said knowingly, disappearing into the restaurant.

When she came back, she took the old men's order.
"We'll take the ladies," they said, pointing at our table. Everyone laughed. They ordered eggs whites and whole wheat toast, dry. The waitress came back to us.
"Well ladies," she said. "What'll it be?"

I watched the lines on her face as we ordered. What kind of toast? How did we want our eggs? Thirty years - which thirty years? Age 20-50? 16-46?

In the few minutes we spent waiting for our food, our friends across the patio finished their egg whites, dropped cash, and resumed their walk. A couple replaced them just as fast.

"Coffee today?" 

Anonymous

Later in the journey with Joelle, a man approached us on the Silver Line bus. He was very unsteady as he sat next to us, singing, with his belly cascading out from under his wife beater.

"Like these shoes?" he asked, his head bobbing in little circles with the motion of the bus.
"Yeah, they look brand new," I said.
"That's 'cause they are. I just stole 'em at DSW. But don't tell the PO-lice though."
"I won't tell," I said.
"Ya know, you girls are good girls. The kinda girls a guy could get jealous over and spend every day with. You're the kinda girls I'd want to find if I weren't so fucked up on drugs and all."

Joelle and I didn't answer. With every pause he resumed his song, which may have been improvised, but included the following lyrics:

"She's out of my league... I try to tell her but she's out of my league... but she's so beautiful though..."

I won't tell you the things he said then, which were so graphic and vulgar that even I was forced to avert my eyes and pretend not to hear. He headed for the door when his stop came, but just before the bus stopped, he came back for one last exchange.

"So can I call you sometime?" he asked me.
"No, I've got a man," I said.
"Well, maybe you and I could still get together," he said, placing his hand on my knee, testing my boundaries. Public transit is all about testing boundaries.
"I think you need to get your hand off my leg, please." I was surprised at how firm my voice sounded.
"Ok, alright, I was just waiting for you to say so," he replied, his hands up in surrender all the way out the door of the bus. 

Everybody Dance Now!

I was riding into the city with my friend Joelle this weekend when three men in track suits and shades boarded the train with a boom box blasting C+C Music Factory.

"Ladies and gentlemen! It's your lucky day today, because you are about to see the show! Black guys dancing, here we go!"
"Yes, that's right! And all you have to do is sit back and put your hands together!"
"And remember, all we ask is that afterward, you hook us up with a generous donation. The best nation is a DO-nation!"

And one by one, they danced. The last guy did about fifteen flip-flops in the aisle of the moving train. We were all laughing and clapping at the break-dancing marvels. At the end of the song, about two stops later, they left, and we were back to ordinary commuting.

I turned to Joelle. "I love my life."

What Goes Wrong When the Holiday Store Stays Open All Year:

Can I Sit?

When a person sits on the aisle-side of two empty seats, it can mean one of two things:
1) I'm getting out soon.
2) I don't want a seat buddy.

When the train is crowded, neither of these things matters, and people will usually do the obligatory scoot. On the train last night, however, I saw a young man in a trench coat sitting in the aisle seat with his leather briefcase on the window seat. I asked him if I could sit, and he hastily rose to let me in, only he never sat back down. I read the same paragraph over and over, not understanding anything, wondering about the man's sudden preference for standing.

My Heart Will Go On

You don't need me to tell you that iPhones are everywhere, but this week, I saw one strapped to a guy's head. At first, it looked like a bluetooth set-up or headphones, but then I realized that he was playing music outright, just above his hairline. I was reading in the station and extremely distracted by his 80's butt rock, so I tried to sit far away from him when the train came. With his dark beard, champion sweatshirt, and low-lying baseball cap, he looked so much like a person who loved 80's butt rock. But in a momentary lull from the train noise, I realized that I'd typecast him too soon, as he bobbed his head to the passionate strains of a Celine-like songstress.

The Fifth Floor

My dad took me to New York when I graduated from junior high. Our hotel was in a slightly sketchy neighborhood, and on our walk home from the theater, he instructed me to keep my eyes at eye level or below. 

"People who live in the city don't look up," he said. "They walk with purpose."

So I did. And eleven years later, I realized he was right, when my friend and I passed the tallest building in Boston on our way home from a play.
"Wow, I've never noticed that before!" she said, looking up. 

"What's that?" I asked.

"Up around the fifth floor - it's all pipes and tubes." I looked up.

The whole expanse of the massive fifth floor was a boiler room; no desks or shades, just tunnels of tubes and vats. It was fascinating - in a building so famous for its exterior, with mirrored windows from floor to ceiling, the pipe-room was on display without regrets - even lightly illuminated after dark. And for the rest of the night, it was a new city. I discovered that familiar storefronts were parts of 20-story buildings with ornate cornices, that the windows above Starbucks had colorful eaves. I saw Boston with the fresh eyes of a tourist, but I felt the affection of an adopted local.

Rodney

In Friday night rush hour, the train was filled with bodies and moving slow. I was pinned up against a wall with my study guide, rejoicing that I had something to lean against that wasn't a person. The car was quiet, except for a young black man in a multi-colored leather jacket. He was giving a derogatory account of his social life to two friends and the whole train, whom he addressed specifically at one point, saying:

"Everyone on this train just needs to have sex right now."

And that was Rodney. A seat near me became vacant at the next station. Rodney asked me if I wanted to sit. Of course I did - desperately, but I didn't want to give him any reason to talk to me about his sex life, so I shook my head. He sat and positioned his knees on either side of my thigh, which wasn't uncouth until more bodies entered the train and sucked up the space between things, leaving me in a slightly embarrassing position. And then the conductor announced that there was traffic ahead and we'd be standing by.

We were stopped for thirty minutes in that train. Rodney couldn't take the silence.

"It's like sardines!" he said, and I laughed. "What you studyin'?" he asked me.
"I have a test tomorrow," I replied.
"What's your test in?"
"It's for my yoga certification."
"Oh, you're gonna be a yoga teacher?" Oh, so sly.
"Yep."
"That's cool. You got a beautiful smile. What's your name?" It was about then that the train shut off, meaning the last ten minutes had been only the beginning.

His name was Rodney. He was studying photography at the community college.
"What kind of photography do you do?" I asked.
"Pornography mostly. But I'm really tryin'-a focus on my music now. I'm an emcee. I just got my YouTube up; you should check it out... Maybe we could even be Facebook friends." That's the thing about pickups these days. They happen online even when you are zero inches away from someone.
"I'm a musician, too," I said, narrowly dodging his 'friend request.'
"Oh yeah? What, you play piano?"
"A little, but mostly I'm a singer. I sing opera."
"No shit? Who's your favorite singer? Beethoven?" I could feel our whole corner of the train snicker.
"Um, I've never heard Beethoven sing. He's actually more famous for his composing."
"Oh right, okay. Man, you got nice, white teeth. You married?" he asked, peeking across my papers toward my mysterious left hand.
"No," I replied.
"Ah, lemme guess, you single?"
"No," I replied. "Actually, it's my boyfriend's birthday on Sunday."
"Wow, you should get him something." Still that sly smile.
"Yeah, I know!" I laughed. "I mean, I did," I replied.
"What'd you get him?"
"Power tools."

It was comical watching Rodney back off in that moment, like a scene from Home Improvement. I may as well have had an escaped convict for a boyfriend. After that, we were just two tired people waiting for the train to move. And then I went home and watched his YouTube.

Genius Bar, Revisited

Last week I pressed the power button on my computer and found a flashing white file folder with a question mark, accompanied by a persistent clicking sound from the bottom right of the keyboard. Two days later, I was back in the white glass room, talking to Brian about my options. He was very calm and professional as he asked me which files I'd like to save. Which pictures, songs, stories, papers? I watched his mouth move and felt a familiar tightening in the back of my throat. I was about to cry over my hard drive.

I wondered how often he'd been cried to. He must have delivered oodles of death sentences in his career as a Genius. But my tears are shy, so I said this instead:

"I'm having a really emotional response to the failure of my computer hardware. It's annoying." He looked at me for the first time since I'd sat down on that modern-chic stool. His eyes were true blue, and he had freckles.
"Yeah, I mean it's all your stuff," he replied. "Do you have it backed up?"
"Not really," I said. "Not unless my memory counts."

It didn't. Somewhere in the course of the last three years, I'd begun to trust all my intellectual property to a dirty, white machine. Only to see it appraised in five minutes by an ultra-hip techie with a logo on a lanyard.

Bogs

"What's that?" said the men on my left. "Somethin' wrong wit cha leg?"
I followed the direction of his pointing finger.
"This?" I asked, holding up my anatomy homework.
"No, that?" he persisted, pointing to my boots. The man was short and stout with a red face and nervous habit of repeatedly biting his lower lip.
"Oh, that!" I finally realized. "That is my part of my boot. It keeps me warm and dry."
He turned away, dissatisfied with my answer and done talking.

BPD

I saw a policewoman on the street today walking the opposite direction and talking on a cell phone.

"Not me!" she said into the phone, "I can't - I've got my hands full."

She was holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

Invisible Serenade

Yesterday there came a strange chirping from the other side of my train car. I looked around to see what it was, but there were too many people between us, and I couldn't see anything to explain what I heard. It got louder as we pulled into Kendall and the sound of the train dulled, and I recognized the lazy whistle of a plastic recorder. It continued through Harvard Square, but I didn't know it had stopped until it was gone. I never saw the player. Was it a jaded street entertainer? A stoned old man? A first grader preparing for music class? 

Don't Know Much about Science

I have always known that the wind blows. But tonight it had me paralyzed, and something hit me: what if it sucks? That changes everything.

Sam

Last week, a guy next to me on the train asked how my book was and what it was about. I told him the story, asked him what 'emasculate' meant, and started bundling up before my stop. He noticed my bike gloves and explained that he normally bike commutes but couldn't take the sludge that day.

"I'm a kindergarten teacher, so I think it's good for the students to see that everyone doesn't have to drive," he said.
"I support that," I answered.

We said goodbye on the escalator. He was a few steps ahead as we crossed the long hall to exit the station. The truth is, I was walking faster than him, but I couldn't bring myself to pass him. Repeat goodbyes are always worth avoiding. I kept a few bodies between us, but they sped up, and by the time we reached the door, it was Sam holding it for me. I gestured that I was powerless in the situation, and we both apologized, which was unnecessary but put us at ease.

"Usually people don't like other people to talk to them on the train," he said.
"I have a whole blog about it," I answered.

As we walked up the hill, we discovered how much we had in common. I thought how funny it was that two bike commuters would meet on a subway train, and I remembered Keith, and how people who smile really do have an unspoken understanding. Or maybe we're just trying to connect. Either way, it's nice to meet like-minded people.

Real Good for Free

My favorite local burrito place opened a new location. To celebrate, they sponsored 6 hours of free food. I was ready and waiting before the place even opened. My neighbors in line shared stories about where they'd come from, what they were going to order, who tipped them off to the promotion. It was a lovely little community for all ages.

Standing outside in the 10-degree afternoon, I realized that this wasn't about saving five dollars at all. Most people would gladly pay five dollars to get out of a frozen thirty-minute queue. Or even more than five dollars if it were TSA security.  It was about putting yourself in a position to receive a little gift, and accepting that gift in good company. 

Come As You Are

When my train pulled into Harvard the other day, the engineer announced that the train was going express to the end of the line, so most of the passengers and I got out to catch the next train. As we waited, an old man started singing really loudly, and everyone else got quiet. I didn't know his song, but this man had soul. The people on either side of me smiled, and we shared impressed looks that said, "Wow, he's really wailing..." The singer made his way over to us as he finished his song, and I clapped lightly, secretly hoping to be joined by the whole crowd.

"Name a band - any band!" he shouted to the man next to me. It got loud then as the next train pulled in, but through the closing doors, I heard the singer start up his unlikely encore - Nirvana. 

She Wears Two Signs

A lady stood with her back toward the top of the escalator as I left my train stop. She had a sign hanging from her shoulders that read, "Crippled - please help." As the escalator rose, I saw that the backs of her legs were exposed, despite the freezing temperatures, and that there were gaping wounds in the belly of both of her calves. I gulped.

Readers, I agonize over the words in these posts, and I hope you will not think I exaggerate when I say this was repulsive, and she bared it to the world in the heart of winter.

"Gaping wounds," I repeated to myself as I walked home. 

Snow Day

As the snow piles up, so do the snow days. People are frustrated that they can't work, can't get around. And they're cold and wet.

But I can't help but think back on the first one, January 12th, 2011, when we went outside to shovel our cars out and found neighbors dancing in the driveway. Literally. Everywhere was gorgeous white and people of all ages were bundled up like the little kid in A Christmas Story. I exchanged smiles and happy snow day greetings with each person I saw - no exceptions. I know that my worldview has a starry-eyed optimist sway, but readers, you couldn't deny the relief on those faces. People need a break from routine, and sometimes the only thing that will grant it is mama earth.

"Everything doesn't get better just because it's a snow day, you know," laughed Morgan.
"Yes, it does," I said. "Look around."

A quote on this subject:
"As Luther puts it, our sinful state is like a dunghill: ugly and offensive, having nothing in itself that would commend it to anyone, let alone God. Justification is like the first snowfall of winter that covers everything, including the dunghill, in a blanket of pure white. The smell is gone. The repulsive sight is gone. The dunghill is still intrinsically a dunghill, but now it’s covered." - Summation found on this blog.

Slow it Down, Now

Due to the massive amounts of snow that have fallen on the greater Boston area, sidewalk sizes have shrunk to a fraction of their former width. Unfortunately for me, this means there is no passing allowed. No matter how late I'm running. So when I find myself behind a blind man with a cane or an old lady with short steps (both of these happened this week), I get a much needed slap on the wrist.

Either that, or I decide to walk on the street.

Sculpture

The snow in New England is heavy and wet. It doesn't cave in or flake off under weight. It's snowman snow. Walking home Monday night, I saw the word "Exactly" scrolled into the snow bank to my right in perfect, undisturbed cursive. The snow rounded the edges of the word, making it even more lovely. A little ahead, I saw the words "I am?" in a different print. After a driveway followed the rest of the conversation, which was a lot like something I might write have written to my sister if my mom had told us to be quiet in church. It was a celebration of the very possibility of a written exchange, not any sort of actual discussion. Further up the hill lie signatures and drawings, will-you-marry-me's and fuck-you's. Four parallel lines where someone had distractedly dragged his gloved fingertips as he walked. Three days of snow graffiti preserved for anyone to see. But walking home on a noiseless night, I felt like it was all for me.

Count on It

Part of my job is keeping the cash drawer stocked with small bills, which makes for a quick-trip to the bank every couple of days. The man who inevitably appears behind any window I choose is excruciatingly slow. He wears gold cuff links, and his shirts are impeccably pressed. His face looks young, but he is so serious and strangely clean that I would guess he's at least thirty. Usually I hand him a stack of twenties and ask for a certain number of ones, fives, and tens. He takes the bills from me in separate stacks and then walks over to the drawer. He works methodically and carefully, always following some version of this pattern:

Count bills, straighten stack, straighten tie, count bills, type on computer, straighten sleeves, straighten stack.

Then he walks over to a counting machine, puts the bills in, and removes them, only to repeat the whole thing. It's all very straight. Everyone else at the bank counts the money once while trying to convince me to open a new account. I prefer the cuff links guy.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

A little girl was lying over two seats when I got on the T today. Her father lifted her up to make room for a huge crowd of people that had just boarded.

"Where is that music coming from?" she asked him.

"Someone's headphones," he answered. "The train doesn't have it's own soundtrack."

"Yes it does," I thought. Just ask Pauline. (Start with 3:15-5:25.)

Little Kid and a Motor Scooter

Seeing a child alone on the street is pretty uncommon in Boston's Back Bay. It causes an it-takes-a-village-sleuth-response in me, and I have to stop and search a moment, wondering where the attendant might be. During the snow last week, I saw a little kid standing next to a parked Vespa, no chaperone in sight. He was all bundled up. It looked like he must be waiting for somebody - the owner of the scooter? He brushed the snow away as it landed, making sure to keep the shiny, yellow panels clear.

Twenty minutes later, when I made my way back to the place where he stood, the boy was helping a man shovel, but the scooter was gone.

Keeping up with the Joneses

During the snow this weekend, one of the stores across the street sent a man outside to shovel the huge sidewalk in front of it. The ground he covered made a perfect outline of the width of his store, and he did not color outside the lines. When he was finished, he went back out to sprinkle salt all over it. Ten minutes later, a man from the next store appeared and scraped away his snow. The next time I looked out, I saw a guy emerge from the store on the other side of the first, all bundled up and extremely reluctant, busted red shovel in hand.

The fascinating part of all this is that there was less than one inch of snow on the ground.

Help for the Homeless

There was a guy standing outside Au Bon Pain soliciting customers on their way in.

"Do you have a moment to help the homeless?"

He caught the person right before me, so I was off the hook. I watched him while I sat in the front window of the shop. He stood in a ski jacket under the falling snow, with hat and mittens and clipboard. After a while, he was approached by a rugged man in a cotton army jacket, with a sand-colored bag spilling out over his shoulder. He was unkempt and under-dressed. I watched their confrontational body language at first, but eventually I could hear their conversation through the thick glass wall.

"So you have some money for me, then?" Asked the self-declared homeless man.

"That's not how it works," answered the canvasser.

The homeless man proceeded to ask him exactly how it worked, how a homeless man was to get this "help." But I don't know what he was answered.

I had watched the man pocket cash from all sorts of people, the way a beggar would with a paper cup - but in this case, it had to go through envelopes and bank accounts and many other hands. And he couldn't lose it to an unapproved homeless man. Especially not in its rawest, most delicate form.

Pristine Privacy

A friend from school was on the opposite train platform from me today. She wore a newsboy cap down over her eyes and held her head low as she waited. I willed her to look over and greet me from across the tracks, but instead she hid under her gray bill, and I could hardly confirm that it was her. When the train came, I converged our paths by walking to the next car. I planned to tell her how I'd tried to catch her eye for ten minutes. But she looked so completely anonymous and solitary; she was content in her own thoughts. So I left her alone on the crowded train.