The G train is a subway line running through Queens into Brooklyn I rarely take.
As I wait on the platform longer than I should, when it does come surrounded by dust and fog, it makes me think of the Polar Express since, I can’t help being surprised to see it.
Its riders are diverse, more so than on any other line, questioning where they come from in their many getups and guises.
The robust woman squeezed in a red-white and blue striped tube dress, looking like a barber’s pole, doin a dance…her breasts spilling out as if they were laughing, and just can’t stop.
A man, shaking a Dunkin Donuts cup, in loafers without tongues, is shimmying down the aisle singing, Smoke Gets In Your Eyes…off key.
Next to me sits a young girl with pink hair that matches her shoes and handbag. Does she spray her hair daily to go with whatever’s on her feet?
But the winning duo is the tattooed man with his Shirley Temple two year-old strapped to his chest in what looks like a rawhide papoose, her corkscrew curls bouncing buoyantly, pogo stick style.
He wears shorts and a tight cutoff T, brandishing artwork on every muscle. Even his clavicle is painted, along with his elbows and eyelids, ankles and knees.
A hefty, black workman getting on, his tools dangling from his belt, sits across from them, a seat away from me, instantly smiling at the little girl.
You can’t help it, she’s so happy, as her father gently gives her sips of water from a Cinderella cup, never taking his eyes off of her, ignoring all of us so collectivly, communally charmed.
A girl gets on and sits next to them buried in her phone, but once sees their mutual affection, even she stops texting and Tweeting, to absorb the love.
Barber pole and pink hair have now joined the vigil, as the G cruises along.
When it stops at Metropolitan Avenue, Dad and Shirley proceed to get off, but right before, he looks up and gives us all the biggest grin.
It was as if the sun, just got on the train.
SB
Mt daughter, who lives in Astoria, often speaks of the “monsters” (as I call them) that lurk below the city in the train stations, on the platforms and on the trains themselves. One could only hope that she’s also had the blessing of seeing this daddy/daughter duo perform their silently, public, private dance of light and love. Thank you for sharing.
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There are many young parents on the trains. I always wonder how they manage. Strollers, more than one child, many of them children themselves. I can barely get my pants on before leaving the house. New Yorkers will forever surprise, scare and ultimately impress me. Thank you for writing. A first…:)
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I love to visit but living there is not for me!
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I totally understand. It’s an acquired taste…living wise.
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Agreed, and the slow, steady life here on the gulf coast is just perfect for me.
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Sounds lovely…really. And thats from a hardcore New Yorker.
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(:
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What a charming story! Magic on the subway! I took the G train from Queens to Manhattan whenever I wanted to shop. That didn’t happen often, but there were always interesting people to watch. You drew your characters with a fine paintbrush of words.
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I forget you once lived here. The G is the Boris Karloff of trains. As we know, I love to people watch. Thanks for reading. 🙂
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I am glad you are a people-watcher, because your comments are priceless.
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You’re always so kind Anne.
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A charming vignette to start my day: thank you Susannah.
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Visual in any event.
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There is something about beautiful children, especially against a raw and gritty backdrop. That’s how I have always viewed the subway after years of daily riding, but those little ones can light up the darkest tunnel.
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So true.
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Susannah, more proof that a good parent isn’t about what’s on the outside. Thanks for reminding us not to judge a book by its cover.
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He sure didn’t fit the demographic alright, but he passed with flying colors…just all over his body…:)
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Love isn’t limited to people with plain skin. Sometimes the craziest looking folks make the best parents. I am fascinated with tattoos. Not the little butterflies but the ones people have in weird places like elbows and around the neck and ear. I often wonder if these people were the kids who couldn’t stand getting a shot.
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I don’t know, not being a tattoo kinda girl, but…they do draw attention so maybe that’s it. You’re noticed when maybe you weren’t as a kid. Food for thought.
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Love this story, especially the last line.
I must say, this sounds like my kind of train. I love people watching and you put me right on board. I was sitting next to barber pole girl being fascinated by her confidence.
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She looked like she was from the Islands. All she needed was a basket on her head. You never saw curves like hers. Oh my.
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