Things happen on the subways of New York. Everytime I walk down the steps, the underground envelopes me...it is a place and a state of mind very different from the world above. Often I am half awake, either going to or coming from work so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open. The person next to me often has something to read. I like to look over their shoulders to check out the latest newspaper headlines, but not everyone is into sharing. Some shake the paper feverously when they see my eyes stealing a line, quickly turn the pages. Some leave the page where I am still reading, even after they are done, waiting generously for a que that it's okay to go on.
These things happen so covertly that neither of us could articulate when and how...it's just an underground phenonmenon like the squirrels collecting nuts or the sunflower facing the sun.
A homeless or crazy lady or man is always in the same car as me. Sometimes they send such a pungent smell of urine and grime through the car that like magic, people pull sprays and colognes from their bags and begin spritzing. A person unaware, maybe on an exhale, sits down next to them and immediately gets up. I want to sit closer, just becuase I feel so bad they have to be that stank. To watch everyone flee from your presence must be even more psycologically disturbing than being homeless and crazy itself.
Sometimes they smell good and ask for my money, and I think, nah, I bet you are taking a bath...you're livin' good. Sometimes they shout about Jesus. In Spanish, English, and even one time in Chinese. I think about their approach to saving the world. Isn't it strange that no one ever just sits next to you and tries to talk to you about Jesus? Now that would be crazy. I bet that's why they shout, better to be loud than for people to think your really crazy.
My favorite subway troop is this Mariachi band that consists of 3 Mexican men. Maybe it's because I'm a little homesick or maybe its just because they're really talented. The stand and play on a moving train, in old cowboy boots and with beat up instruments, smiling the whole time like they were on a stage. Like clockwork, during rush hour on the A train headed uptown they are there singing a song. It's always different, but upbeat and sends me to a celebratory space that I imagine I am in in those 3 minutes. I think about how poping they would make a drunken wedding go off. And when one of them comes around to collect donations with his hat, I never give them money, just a smile of gratitude in hopes it is enough.
