An experiment in nonfiction writing. Originally published April 18, 2009
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Brooklyn Bound F Train, 6 in the evening. Date not provided but sometime in October, 2008.
“One thing about this crazy business is you never know what’s going to happen from one minute to the next,” says a heavily coiffed woman in a long fur coat carrying a Hermes Birkin bag. She holds court in the rear of the F with her co-workers, the three women surrounding the silver pole, smiling and laughing gaily at the furred woman’s every word.
A young woman reads, “The River of Doubt,” by Candice Millard. Two young techies debate about the merits of a new product. Another woman carries corrugated cardboard boxes from Staples onto the train at the Rockefeller Center stop. Another boards, wearing black from head to toe: Scarf, jacket, skirt, tights, boots, bag, hair tie. Everything is black, even her nails. The color is called “Wicked.” She sits in the middle, mustard colored seat and slowly removes an object from her bag. It is startling in its whiteness. She places a thick manuscript, bright white against all the blackness, on her lap,.
A crunchy man – he looks like he is ready for hiking the Adirondacks ¬– in thin-rimmed glasses, an orange button down and corduroy pants, carefully reads the Economist. An older Asian woman across from me speaks to her daughter in the next seat. Mandarin? She holds a small clear jelly jar in her lap. The jar contains something that resembles grey foam. The contents are as unfamiliar as the language she speaks. Someone’s iPod blares so loudly that the lyrics of a song can almost be made out. Poor hearing is the hallmark of this twenty-something generation.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” a woman pleads as she makes her way through the crowded car. She doesn’t ask for money, she only wants to get by. Her voice is scratched, damaged. Her hair is wild. She is so small and sad. And homeless.
As the train makes it way to Brooklyn, most in the car have become wordless, bookless, iPodless. The man standing in front of me wears worn Doc Marten’s, a Manhattan Portage messenger bag, a synthetic coat with a synthetic, fake fur trim. His face is worn, pockmarked, ashen. An older woman sits down to my left, holding flowers wrapped in a white paper cone. The paper is patterned with red drawings of flowers and the words, “Say it with flowers.” If one wanted to sell flowers, wouldn’t it be more effective to show the actual flowers instead of poor renderings on paper?
A pretty woman with bright red hair wears a cherry red coat and reads intently. Voices conversing near me. Can’t see them because the train is so crowded. A small woman reads a small book, “Wilderness & Travel Medicine.” She looks like she is planning a trip. She will climb Mt. Kilimanjaro.
More iPods show up now. A small black woman in a tight fitting cap gets on at West 4th Street. She sucks her teeth and mumbles, “shiiiiit,” as she tries to make her way through the car.
I have been in the same spot in this last car of train for nearly 40 minutes. It is hot. I sit on my coat, scarf removed and marvel at the way riders are bundled up. I wonder how they do not feel the heat.
An incredibly tall woman with a faux fur toupee, pebbly skin and a teal, velour jacket reads “The Birthday Party,” with audio buds in her ears. The height of the hat makes her appear taller, as she effortlessly holds the horizontal bar. She must be 6 feet tall. I realize that another woman who has been standing near me for several stops is very pregnant and a pang of guilt comes over me for not offering my seat. But she is just standing there, smiling and talking to her boyfriend, not eyeing a seat or looking the least bit uncomfortable. Her jacket is opened (perhaps she is hot too) revealing a camel colored sweater and a third trimester belly. The female all in black is still on the train, still directly across from me. She has dozed off, though, her hand still on the manuscript, her black fingernails stark against the white page, the hum of the train’s wheels in her ears, her head tilted all the way back against the wall – a burst of color advertising the Institute of Learning, “We Believe in YOU!”