Invisible Illnesses

Sitting across from me on the #6 train was a woman (?) wearing a two toned black and blonde disheveled wig. It was on a little crooked, and her shaved scalp was revealed when she pushed it up. More curious than the wig was her actual gender. I surreptitiously looked at her trying to determine if she was really a she.  Was the wig an early attempt of a man in the throws of gender change?  Did I spy a bit of a mustache on the upper lip?  Her hands, manicured with unpolished tips were large and masculine.  Her bare legs suggested male muscles under the turquoise and black wrap dress that reminded me of a Diane VonFurstenburg I had once owned.

Then I remembered my friend Kiki, bald from chemotherapy for a brain tumor and others I have known who donned wigs to hide their naked crowns after chemo sessions.  Kiki had told me of the rudeness of bus riders grabbing a seat from under her as she tried to sit following a treatment.  How she had burst into tears before someone offered her a seat.  We acknowledge the elderly or physically infirm.  But, the invisible illnesses allude our kindness.  Today I will be kinder I tell myself as I leave my home and venture out to board public transportation.

Lemmings in Manhatten

Bounding down the stairs, happily listening to Jackson Brown on the I-Pod, I stopped short realizing that my timing was off. A #1 Train had just deposited its passengers, now standing five deep waiting for the Express. Grumbling to myself, I made my way down the platform to my usual space and waited as a #2 Express pulled into the station. Already crowded, the lemmings pushed on, their bodies hanging out of the train waiting for the doors to close and seal them in. Yes, I have now classified my fellow riders lemmings rather than roaches. Both creatures scurry, but lemmings are a more apt description...a group following without thought of their safety better describes the scene before me.

No big surprise that another #1 train pulled in and released another load, all scrambling to push themselves into the already packed car. Like a pack of lemmings with tunnel vision peering over the edge of a cliff, they were driven by some instinct to push their sweaty bodies onto the train. Had they only looked down the track and seen the lights of the next Express they could have spared themselves the indignity.

A few stragglers broke from the pack to wait along with me. They too spied the lights illuminating the dark tunnel. The #2 finally closed it doors, cementing the bodies together as they pressed against the steel doors. A nearly empy #3 slid into it's place with seats and standing room. I settled into a seat and breathed a sigh of relief. Ahhh, civilization. What a difference a minute makes!

Daily Rituals

There is something very intimate and, nearly erotic about watching a man tie his tie. Almost illicit, particularly when it is happening right before your eyes, and the individual is rather attractive...tall, with dark sandy hair short in the back, but fuller over his piercing blue eyes. I felt as though I were in his bedroom, standing behind him as he crossed the ends of the chianti-colored tie with his long, thin fingers and knotted it. I wasn't in his bedroom, we were on the #2 train heading into Times Square. His mirror was the subway window and he appeared lost in thought as performed what was probably a week-day ritual. Who knows why he left his apartment with this final detail undone. Had this rainy day inspired him to sleep in, not wanting to leave the comfort of his covers? One can only imagine!

Entry Blockers

I ran down the stairs to the number 7 train, late as usual, muttering to myself, "get the lead out, move faster" as the people in front of me crept down the stairs.  The bell had rung indicating that the doors were about to close.  If I missed that train, I would have to wait 3-5 minutes for the next one that was pulling into the station to leave.  I had my headphones on, when I sarcastically said "Excuse me" to the thoughtless sentries that blocked the door.

Making it past these two behemoths I noticed that every one was staring at me.  Looking down to make sure I wasn't exposing body parts,  I realized that my music was kind of loud, so my voice must have been loud as well.  Feeling a bit contrite, I sought out a sympathetic face and found one in a sad looking woman, brown skinned with darker circles under her eyes. "I guess I was kind of loud, huh?"  "I feel the same way," she said in a soft voice, "I'm glad you said something." And, so I continue my crusade to rid the trains from entry blockers.  

Red Haired Lady

I take the 7 Train from Times Square to Grand Central five days a week. Doing that, you begin to notice many of the same people. There was one woman who reminded me of a friend of mine, red hair, freckles, kind of a birdlike frame. She could have been a dancer. Running to catch the train, I noticed her behind me. I held the door, and commented, "I feel like I know you!". "Me too," she said. We struck up a conversation and it came out that we both came from the Upper West Side.

Now, getting on the train at 96th Street is always a horror. This being my point of entry I believe that I have the god-given right to board before all of the "roaches" as I refer to the uptown people who de-train from the Local onto the Express train. This is what it feels like when the #1 comes in just as the Express is pulling in. All these little bugs crossing the platform scurrying to get on the train. Normally, I take the warrier stance, spreading my legs wide, moving my arms pretenting to be listening to music.

I ask my new friend where she gets on. "103rd and then change at 96th" she cheerfully tells me.
Ah, I think, you are one of the roaches. In the future, I should not be so quick to judge!