So here I am on the Number 6 at 4: a.m. on a Saturday, headed downtown to an early job.
One can’t help but be impressed by the New York City subway system, even when it misbehaves, being the Concorde of public transportation.
Packed at all hours, day and night, gives it a Vegas feel as if all clocks stop once you’re underground.
My car is flush with an assortment of folk fresh from a festive Friday night, attire, a second ago so chic, now garish in the harsh, overhead light.
Cleavage yawns beneath tube tops and camisoles.
I watch a lovely Latina reinstall a false eyelash while her man naps across her lap.
A lad of 20 with what looks to be, Michael the Archangel, stenciled on his forearm, sings softly to himself.
I daydream despite the chatter remembering what it was like being that young, when a plus-sized gal plops next to me, pinning my arm against her plump, spandexed hip.
As I try breaking free, she gives me her best…you gotta problem…look, I at once counter with my own well honed, no, do you?
It’s kind of like a traveling circus. A sideshow tossed in with your fare.
One couple smooching, another arguing…a Pug, like a Jack-In-The-Box, pops his head out of a gym bag.
But I’ve saved the best for last, when a Latino family gets on, the dad holding a bouncy baby, the mom, the hand of a little senorita with daisies plaited through her hair.
By the looks of them, you’d never guess the hour, their smiles lighting up the car like Spanish sunbeams.
It was then I noticed Gramma propped in the corner with a gigantic Snoopy under her arm she’s hugging as if they’re lovers.
As I get off at Spring, smiling at my seat mate knowing, she nor anyone else will remember the likes of me, but I on the other hand, in great detail, shall remember, the likes of them.