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.