on the train

F Train, 2nd Ave

At the Second Avenue stop, my coworker tapped my shoulder. I’d been in an iPod hole for most of my trip home. The rest of the time, I’d been staring at a little girl in her stroller. She had a box of fast food mozerella sticks and was peeling off the fried. I approved (I mostly hate fried food).

The tap on the shoulder from my coworker came as a surprise because truly: had we been in the same sweaty car for four whole stops and just not seen each other? Then my coworker told me he was on his way to band rehearsal with my ex-boyfriend.

Oh. It’s NY and we do small world like that.

Guest Ride: I Married A Dead Woman

He stood 2 inches taller than I, skinny and aged. Skin that clung to his cheekbones and eyes but not to his lips intensified this mans presence and made the thought of him in a heated debate beyond frightening. He bumbled around a pole fidgeting, visibly anxious or annoyed, fishing in pockets and backpack. A scar/branding on his right inner forearm added more to this mans mystique. His tight eyes kept darting and with a notable “Harumph” he flung his back to me and began scribbling, shoulders hunched forward as if this cocooned him from the other riders. It did. At least from me.

Entering my stop, I had just about forgotten about him until the train braked, scratched metal, jerking it’s passengers forward.

Against the pole, he straightened his body and assembled his gangly balance amongst other train goers. His left arm wrapped high around the pole, almost over his own head, and held the notepad he was writing on.

A note pad with scribbles, scratched out lines, all in blue pen revealed he was writing poetry. I could only make out the first line until the train stopped, offering me my intended stop. In just 2 seconds, this man made more sense to me somehow. I wish I knew him and wish I could read more of his poetry.

The 1 line read: “I married a dead woman.”

— author: LRJ

F train, Smith / 9th

If you’re going to sell something on the train, let it be poetry. Riding the train with my friend Wally last Sunday, a poetry-selling-man got on at Smith / 9th St with a stack of books. “Poetry!” “Buy your poetry.”

Best of all: he made a sale. And then he UPSOLD, convincing the woman that she should get TWO books instead of ONE. Excessive caps only because this seems so unlikely.

LIRR, 4th of July

Riding back from a Long Island BBQ to celebrate the 4th, the train was near-deserted. I would have expected more brown bagged beverages, but actually, the train seemed more exhausted than eager to drink. Along with my two friends, I plopped into a six-seater, which housed a Snapple bottle already. We gingerly moved that to the floor, where it rolled back and forth all the way from Rockville Center to Jamaica, where we got off to transfer.

Across from us, was a young couple. The girl — pretty, with a white tube top and braids encircling her head — sat on top of the boy, and they canoodled the entire ride. When the ticket-taker came through, tiredly saying “Tickets, Tickets” they just ignored him entirely. He looked over at their tongues, and said quietly “Tickets?” and then sighed and kept walking.

A valuable lesson in fare evasion: if you make out on the train, you might intimidate the workers, or maybe just entertain them enough, so that they won’t take your ticket.

I Thought This Was Important While Tipsily on the Train & I wrote it Down

At Jay St / Borough Hall, a man-sized woman gets on the train. At first, I think she is actually a man. Her manly size is emphasized by her man-style suit, complete with black suit pants, a politician’s red and black striped tie, and orthopedic looking shoes. She is carrying a small, fake designer clutch bag—it looks delicate and fragile in her hands, as though she is carrying it for someone else.

Moleskin Notebook

During the bleary eyed morning commute, it’s noteworthy when a blonde business-type woman screams out “hon, hon.” Do people other than waitresses really say “hon” when referring to others?

“You forgot this,” the blonde said to another woman, just as the garbled voice of the announcer, the pre-door-close ritual began. She handed the moleskin notebook off to a scruffy man, who snaked his arm between the crowds and handed it to its owner. She said “thank you” to the general crowd, in a voice that sounded less than enthused but this was perhaps because the doors were nearly closing upon her.

F train, evening

At Broadway Lafayette, the heat is hotter than other train stations. After two V trains bypass the station it’s even more extreme. When the F train finally arrived today, I scurried up to the train door, and reached down to my bag to check that my sweatshirt hadn’t fallen off. But when my hand extended down, instead of grabbing my black sweatshirt, I instead connected with a (not sweaty) hand. Cool and soft, we held hands for a connected second, before we both hands shook loose and I apologized.

heading home from Coney Island

Around 11 PM, heading home from Coney Island, we sat across from a man reading one of those pseudo-homosexual-magazines-for-straight-men that feature muscles under the pretext of teaching people to get bigger muscles. The gent had lots of white hair, was wearing shorts, and had a enormous magnifying glass. Picture a regular magnifying glass that you might use to examine a jewelry stone, and then triple that. Maybe quadruple.

He rode the train all the way from Stillwell Avenue to Kings Highway.