19th
6 train
A shiny-faced Asian woman stares bemusedly at passerby. She is wearing a silk green scarf around her hair, tied snuggly beneath her chin. I stand between the stairs separating the local to the express, and watch in disgust as she spits multiple times into a tissue in her hand. Long strands of spit dribble out of her mouth. She crumples the tissue and continues to hold it, smiling slightly at everyone.
I sprint down the stairs to catch the express. The woman follows, and seats herself across from two young hideous teenage specimens, all bad hair, bad skin, bad nail polish, who are giggling in fits at a tall, lanky black man who is jerkily dancing along to his iPod by the doors. They are wearing similar outfits - white hoodies covered in different brand names, long jean skirts of differing lengths, tennis shoes - and get off with an older overweight couple, laughing now, and pointing at the dancing man. The Asian woman continues to smile at everyone, clutching her tissue.
A guy gets on the car with a boom box. He got on my car two weeks ago, right before I saw a man get hit by the train. He fell back onto the platform, and it didn’t make much sense, his getting hit, the way he fell. Boom box guy dances to the Black Eyed Peas on the moving car, the exact same routine as before. He does a hand stand, pauses, then pulsates his arms to the beat, frightening all who are seated near his feet. He jumps up and grabs the upper railings, spinning himself and landing several times. Then, the request for cash. The car remains silent, no one moves.
“Not even a THANK YOU. What’s wrong with people. You people. I’mma be on America’s Next Best Dance Crew next month. Thas right. TV people. I’mma be on TV next month.”
