Keith

Sometimes I let my backpack sit next to me on the train. Like a few weeks ago, for example - right before I met Keith. He came into the train and seemed confused about where to sit. Though there were other places all around, I felt like I should move my bag, in case that was his holdup. I asked him if he wanted to sit. He sat.

"I like friendly people," he said. "People who smile seem to know the same thing I do. I like to think they come from the same place I come from."

"And where is that?" I asked.

"My mother's womb," he replied, smiling under his sheety, white mustache. His teeth were yellow and few.

"Me too," I laughed. "I come from 'my mother's womb,' too."

"We musta been womb-mates," he suggested. "Two thousand years ago." He had sparkly eyes.

I looked on confusedly while he held up his brown leather briefcase and explained the perplexing circumstances surrounding its lost strap hook. He looked like a veteran - camouflage cargo pants, light denim jacket, long white hair.

"People who aren't friendly just walk around... look at 'em, they're in pain." He gestured to the full row of passengers across the way. "They read newspapers and play with their electronics to hide their eyes." I could see the river behind them as we crossed the bridge into the city.

"Maybe they're just in pain for now," I offered. "Maybe they're short on sleep or sick or whatever."

"You might think so. Although you're a woman! Women don't think. You're lucky you're a woman, so you don't have to think."

I was silent. With two stops to my destination, it seemed like a bad time to tackle that statement.

"Ya know, people like me go to the movies and get ideas down in Hollywood, you know? They'll do anything in Hollywood. S & M people like me, who cut off their tattoos with razor blades and go to the movies..." He trailed off.

"What?" What?, indeed. I was lost at his rapid shift of conversation and frightened by the content it brought. I wasn't even sure I had heard him correctly.

"Never you mind. You just pretend you didn't hear that, smiley. What I meant to say is, I'm going to the movies. Goin' to Lowe's to the movies." He laughed.

"Oh, okay!"

I clung to his mention of the movies - I made sure we did not stray from that topic. Meanwhile, my mind raced through images sprung from his confession and the mere utterance of 'razor blade'. I wondered if he had a sharp object with him - in his briefcase or the pocket of his white undershirt. I was afraid of Keith. I had trusted him with my smile and ears and personal space, and somewhere between his long mustache and Black Swan, he betrayed me. I arrived at work feeling ridiculously naive.

Furry Friend

A beautiful girl came on the train last night holding nothing but a stuffed puffin. She looked like a model - tall and blonde with a clean white coat, Uggs, trendy fur hat. But her bird was not stylish or novel. She was way whiter than its smutty, sooty fur. She carried it in a hug and placed it on her lap when she sat, without a hint of embarrassment.

Museum Advertisement

Paul Revere looked like Jack Black, I think.

The Coldest Night Yet

Weather.com says it feels like 20 degrees Fahrenheit tonight. And I rode my bike home from work. I thought I was going to die of hypothermia and freeze onto the grates of a gutter before I was halfway to my destination. I cursed my prickly frozen thighs, my numb finger pads, my cartilaginous nose, my neighborhood far away. And then I saw a woman in a too-big poofy coat and an orange stocking cap, pushing a shopping cart full of torn garbage bags uphill in the middle of the street. And I am warm at home now with hot tea in my belly, and I have no idea where she is.

Serial Swindler

Do you recall the man from this post, readers? Well, I didn't tell you, but I saw him again in September. Only that time he was screaming about how he'd lost a bed lottery at MIT and needed seven dollars to get on the commuter rail at Porter Square (for reasons I've now forgotten). And even though I recognized him, I gave him the two dollars in my wallet, because his story was so convincing that I assumed he'd been telling the truth both times. Except that I saw him get off before Porter Square and run to a different train car with our seven dollars. Maybe he wanted Raisinets for the journey.

But then I saw him again. And again he proclaimed an incredible tale of uber-specific misfortune to the entire train car.

"Can anyone on this train give me 22 bucks to get a picture ID? I'm up for my section 8 housing, but they won't see me if I don't have a picture ID... I've waited months and months for this, and all I need to do is get through the RMV. I already got three dollars from the cafeteria at Mass General before I got kicked out by the cops. Please everyone, can you spare anything? Two dollars or three dollars just to get me through the RMV. I just want a roof over my head. Please, I just want a bed."

Always rush hour, always between Park Street and Harvard Square stations, always the middle of the train. Who cares if he's a repeat offender? He's creative, he does his research... the guy is good. No wonder the MBTA is following him.

Squeaky Wheel

I've become the kind of person who wears the same pair of shoes every day. And though my current pair is pretty new, they've developed a quirk that defines me wherever I walk. That is to say, the right one has. It makes a rubbery squack every time it meets a walking surface. It happens on concrete, gravel, brick, and even certain carpets. I've investigated the sole of the shoe many times, but I think I'm going to have to call in a professional. For now, I'm enjoying the audible rhythm of my days and the backwards glances from walkers past and the fascinated stares from their kids and pets. Step, click, step, squack, step, squeak. Broadcasting the pace of my life.

Face/Off

I found myself in a game of chicken with a goose today while I rode my bike up the Riverway. She won.

Mystery Boxes

Getting onto the train today, I spotted a dainty box in the lap of an awkward boy I sat next to. It was shaped like a white gingerbread house and brushed with warm oriental flowers and unfamiliar red characters. It looked imported, but it was made of the thin cardboard Mike's Pastry uses, and he held it in his hands as though he'd only just acquired it.

I suppose this won't surprise you, but I was so stricken by the guy's parcel that I bumped into him. I apologized. He looked up at me to report that he was fine. I thought that was enough to serve as an invitation for my burning question.

"Where did you get that box?" I blabbed.
"Chinatown," he answered, looking pleased at my interest. And then, as if he knew it was inevitable, he peeled back the top flap to give me a peek. "They're Chinese treats; I don't really like them, but they're for a friend."

I guess I'd expected a collection of beads or thimbles or an exotic talking bird, but the fluffy breads kind of killed the magic. I looked down at the book in my hands.

"So... how are you?" he asked anxiously.
"Good," I sighed. "Glad to be done with work and headed for a nap." I smiled faintly and lifted my bookmark.

And that was how we failed to meet each others' expectations.

Jam Tomorrow, Jam Yesterday

The other day I walked into Starbucks to find a bitter old man accosting each barista, one by one, with variations on the following:

"You wanna jam!? I'll show ya how to jam!"

"You think you know how to jam, huh?"

"Why do you always wanna jam?"

I really don't know what he meant by jam, but this is what I was thinking:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-MLwPW86Rs

After they asked him to leave enough times, he showed himself out and proclaimed, "Ya' all so fuckin' stupid!"

Random Acts of Worship, Pt. 2

I was waiting for an outbound green line train on Thursday when I heard a solo Amen chorus from somewhere in the station. The concrete walls muddied the sound so that I had no clue where to find its source. People around me leaned forward and back to peer around columns, but no one knew where to find the singer. When my train pulled up, I crossed the platform and lined up to get on. It seemed that a train had just dropped off another load of red line passengers, because a crowd of people swarmed up from the lower level. I glanced over to where they came from and noticed a tall black man lowering his straight arms from overhead just as the singing stopped.

Random Acts of Worship, Pt. 1

There is an idol in a box along Willow Street in Somerville. It's set in front of the porch of a blue house on an all-residential block. I think it's Jesus, but I'm not sure. It is a little Prince dressed all in white with a cape and crown. He's worn and water-damaged, but there are usually some fresh flowers in front of and around his box. I have seen him many times and thought about taking a picture of him for the blog, but I wasn't sure if he really spoke for himself.

A few days ago, I saw an old man in a blue L.L. Bean jacket standing before the prince with bowed head. It was pretty cold out, but the man braved the wind with his bare hands folded softly across his chest. There are churches all over the neighborhood. I had to wonder why the man chose that place to pause.

XOXO

I just saw a man scattering Kibbles n’ Bits in Copley Square. He held the bag with one hand and reached in for handful after handful with the other, tossing the little brown shapes like wedding rice. I tried not to crunch any as I walked through them, so as not to disrupt his mysterious project and not to leave smelling like dog food.

I wonder what happened after I left. Specifically, I wonder if all the dogs in the park suddenly gathered around him and marched and munched in a swirly kaleidoscope.

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.

Urban Campers

I went to a church for rehearsal tonight, but it took me a little while to find the entrance. The first side I approached had some door-like structures, but none with hinges or handles. As I continued to investigate, I saw a disheveled sleeping bag along the side of the wall. There was a woman curled up in there. She was dozing contentedly on her side with her hands balled under her chin and one leg stuck out for air. Three other people were just around the corner, with their backs against the wall of the church, smoking under the spotlight and laughing. They had piles of soiled blankets and holey duffel bags. They looked inquisitively at me when I passed, probably wondering why I had strayed from the sidewalk in the first place. I diverted my eyes and quickened my step to get into the church. When I came out after rehearsal, the whole group had retired. Two people were peacefully spooning on top of their sleeping bag. It was a perfect night to sleep in the open air.

You Missed A Spot

***WARNING: Topics covered in this post may include canine fecal matter.***

I just saw a man picking up his dog’s poop on the sidewalk. The dog was one of those tall and narrow breeds, like a greyhound with long hair. His face came to a straight point, with beady eyes on either side of the ledge. The man knelt down behind him with a mini plastic bag around his hand. He muttered to the dog as he worked, grabbing each piece as it landed on the cement. Just as he wrapped up the bag, another tiny turd dropped behind him. He hadn’t seen it. It was right in the middle of the sidewalk when they walked away. I wanted to point it out to him, but how could I critique the work of a person humbling himself behind his dog? And what would I have said?

I Can Imagine

I got slowed down tonight as I fell in behind a family of five on my walk home. The mother was explaining the phenomenon of dry ice to her youngest son. The father was directly ahead with the older boys, and all of them wore big sweatshirts. After we'd passed a few houses, I noticed that the little boy started winding his steps to the left. I thought he was scared of me or something, but then I saw him drag his mom over and motion to his brothers. They were making room for me to pass. I was so tired that I had hardly noticed the change in pace, but I decided I'd better gun it ahead after their collective gesture.

"Young and fit!" the father said to me as I passed.
"Just anxious to be home, is all," I said, turning back a little.
"I can imagine," he said with a big, charming grin. I smiled back.

I headed home at my new quick pace, figuring I might as well finish what I started. But the whole way home, I found myself trying to interpret the father's remark. Did he know that I had just finished work, that I had stayed later than usual? Did he know that I wasn't dressed warm enough for the weather? Maybe he was ready for bed too and commiserating. Do people say they "can imagine" now when they're commiserating? Or is it a catch phrase that he's known for saying all the time, even inappropriately? Like, "It's hot, huh?" - "I can imagine."

It really could have meant anything.

I got a clearer message from his face, which I'm pretty sure went something like this: "Hey neighbor, life is good. Enjoy the night."

Empty Cup

A few days ago I witnessed a girl drop her wallet on the sidewalk. Luckily, a panhandler stopped her, saying, "Miss! Miss, you dropped your wallet."
"Oh! Thank you!" she said, looking grateful and flustered as she picked it up.
The man flipped his Au Bon Pain cup to her expectantly.
"Sorry," was all she said as she turned away.
"Oh come on, miss - I was gonna take it anyway!"
An onlooker confirmed this, shouting, "I saw him, he was gonna take it anyway!"
But she never looked back.

Fighting for Survival

Missed Connections and Made Ones

Sometimes there are street musicians who seem to be on another level than the others. There was a man like that in the train station last week, singing with his guitar. Most of the time he just sounded like a really good folk singer, but every once in a while he let out an other-worldly hum in his high range, and I couldn't even believe it was coming from him. It was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard from a man's voice. I stood right near him and clapped when he finished his song. After he thanked me, a man appeared from the other side of the barrier with a hand outstretched. The singer shook it and proceeded to strike up a conversation. They chatted while the station filled with people. I thought it was a shame that he was missing the chance to perform for this huge crowd of people; they would be gone in a moment and never have heard him sing. By the time he picked up his guitar again, the train was approaching, and its noise drowned him out. I watched him on mute from the window of the train, and I saw the last people step off the platform, but the man who shook the singer's hand hadn't come onto the train. He had stayed back to hear the rest of the song. And I suppose he would listen better than a crowd of people anyway.

Discuss, Discuss!

Yesterday there was a row of seven people reading the Metro right next to each other. Many of them had similar cloudy beverages from Dunkin Donuts in their hands, too.

I thought they were a book club waiting to happen.

City Kids, Vol. 2

My boyfriend witnessed a little boy drinking from a water fountain and then being scolded by his mother the other day.

"No no no, we don't drink from those!" she said. "They're dirty!"

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I have recently become very interested in assistance pets, especially seeing eye dogs, because their owners have presumably never seen them. I don't know how people are set up with these dogs, but I wonder if they've chosen the dogs or if the dogs have chosen them, like wands at Ollivander's. I wonder if they realize how much their dogs represent them in the world, and I can't help but notice that each dog seems to match its owner in some way. Today I saw an old man in a button-up striped shirt with high-waisted shorts and boots. His dog was a muttish German Shephard with a lovely fatigue about him. When the man sat, the dog sauntered over to him and folded himself up for a rest. They were tired old friends and they belonged together.

She's Got That Glow

People always say pregnant women have a "glow." When I read that or hear it in movies, I always picture one of those Jesus icons with a bright yellow halo around his hair. I had never witnessed this phenomenon personally until today in Park Street station. A gorgeous woman around 30 years old passed me in a tight-fitted T-shirt that showed off her big pregnant belly. She wore a contented smile like nothing I'd ever seen, and you could see that all her thoughts pointed to that belly. She wasn't holding it or even looking at it, but the power of that connection filled the station with sweet resplendence.

Then I spent the whole ride home thinking of names for babies.

Blue Gatorade

Yesterday I saw a little girl drinking a blue Gatorade, and her mouth was all blue. She was drinking it so fast that she gasped after each sip.

Her dad looked down at her as they entered the train, saying, "I can't believe you like that stuff. DIS-gus-ting. I'm a bad father for buying it for you. Now this," he reached down into his plastic bag, "This is yummy goodness." He pulled out a Naked juice.
"What is it?" asked the blue-cheeked kid.
"Carrot juice," he replied.
"Yuck!"

Later I heard more snippets of their chat.

"Why don't you write your next story about a handsome dad who is also a king?" asked the man.
" 'Cause," she explained, "I don't wanna write about that. And I already know what I wanna write about."
"And what's that?"
"John and Luke and those ones."
"Why do you wanna write about them?"
" ' Cause they're the only ones who like Gatorade."

With that, she delightedly slurped down the rest of her drink. I wish I could read her stories.

City Kids

I saw a family leaving the train together yesterday. When we approached their stop, they all stood up, and the mom took out a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. All four kids put their hands out when they saw it, and she put a dime-sized drop in each one. Then the dad held his hand out, and she gave him some, and she took some, and they all put it on. I heard some of the kids asking for more and watched them fight over the bottle as they left the train.

Headed to Harvard

When the train pulled up in Park Street the other day, the doors opened to release a screaming twenty-something white man in an underwear T-Shirt.

"WHY ARE YOU FOLLOWING ME!?" He screamed and sprinted out the doors. A few other people followed him out, one of which was a Korean man in a starchy white dress shirt and an MBTA badge.

I was relieved that this guy was leaving the car I was boarding. When we pulled into the next station, however, he appeared again just before the doors closed, and sprinted back in. Apparently he was dodging from car to car.

"STOP FOLLOWING ME!" His voice broke when he yelled; he sounded like a singer in a hardcore band. This time nobody entered behind him, and I wondered for a moment if he wasn't just hallucinating and paranoid. People made way as he paced up and down the train, and his voice softened while he pleaded between sobs.

"Please will somebody help me? I'm goin' outta my mind here, people... I got this fuckin' MBTA guy followin' me... Please I... Oh sorry, I see you got kids - I'm not tryin' ta be freaky or somethin', I just need some help! This guy's followin' me like a weirdo. Please, somebody just help me." There was a clear stream running from his nose, and he wiped the moisture around his eyes with a bundled up tote bag.

We all stared at the space in front of our feet while he cried on and on. Nobody said anything. Nobody asked what was wrong with him, what he needed help with. The girl across from me raised her hand to her forehead as if she needed to block the sun from the guy's direction. At one point I heard him mutter something about a drug program, but mostly he just kept asking for help. "There's so many people, I just don't understand why someone won't help me..." I wanted to be that someone. I wanted to help. But I was paralyzed.

When we pulled into the next station, the MBTA agent walked slowly up to our car, and the crying guy ran out, wailing again."I gotta go to Harvard, but I'm leavin' now 'cause you won't stop following me! And I can't afford to get back on! But I'm leavin', okay!?"

The agent strolled wordlessly after him, and we rolled on toward Harvard without them.