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.