New York Stories
I board at 68th Street at the head of the train, as I always do. Even when the other cars are too jam packed to squeeze one more person onboard, the other passengers at my stop are usually too lazy to walk forward on the platform to get on at the front, meaning I can usually slip on without having to wait while several full trains pass me by.
The downside of boarding at the head of the train is that it's the car reserved for people with bicycles, and there are often grimy bike messengers carelessly yanking around their filthy, muddy bikes, which occasionally brush against the crisply ironed droidwear of the other passengers.
Today the first car has only one guy with a bike, sitting on the little handicapped bench by the driver's door.
The first thing I notice about him is the odd manner in which he's holding his bike. Most bike messengers, if seated, will turn the front wheel perpendicular to the rest of the bike, thereby shortening the bike's length and hopefully reducing the dirt anxiety of the other riders. This guy has got his bike upended, the handlebars pointed towards the roof, and he's clutching it to his chest.
The second thing I notice is how much the guy with the bike looks like Ziggy Marley; like he might be of mixed race, his skin a mocha-cappuccino, with short braided dreadlocks. He's wearing headphones, and, while his head nods, I catch a glimpse of the palest blue eyes I've ever seen.
Seeing his eyes sets me off to creating an elaborate back-story for this stranger. I decide that he's obviously a model, waiting for his break, doing grunt work as a bike messenger, probably for one of the Midtown delivery companies that service all the fashion mags.
The third thing I notice about the guy with the bike is that he has a spiral notebook jammed into the netting of his backpack. I can see that the front of the notebook is full of scribbled messages, all in French. OK, this guy with the bike is the biracial son of a French citizen and one of their many North African immigrants. His parents begged him not to come to New York-Americans are beneath contempt after all-but he's willfully disobeyed them and come to the city to pursue his dream of global fame, and after achieving it, he'll return to Paris and resume sneering at American tourists.
In the time that it takes us to move from 68th Street to 59th, I talk myself into loathing the guy with the bike: He probably has snotty Eurotrash, condescending friends and they have a stupid way of holding their smelly cigarettes. As the train slows into the 59th Street station, I hear a tiny bit of his music leaking out from his headphones-Coldplay. My victory is complete.
When the doors open at 59th, a pregnant woman is the first to disembark. As she passes the guy with the bike, he does an odd thing. He doesn't stop nodding his head to his stupid music, but he sort of barks out a word at the woman. It sounded like: "Baby!" The next passenger off the train passes the guy with the bike, and this time he says, a bit louder, "Tall!" Indeed, the guy is quite tall. The next lady to pass him gets a shouted "Suitcase!" clearly because she's pulling one.
I'm really pleased now. Apparently this Yank-hating model wannabe has some sort of bizarre version of Tourettes. I share smiles of amusement with the passengers near me and notice that the guy with the bike doesn't announce arrivals, only departures, which probably means something to those familiar with this sort of thing.
I eagerly anticipate 51st Street. When the doors open, the guy with the bike is momentarily overwhelmed by the number of passengers leaving the train. His eyes widen and his head snaps back and forth as he tries not to miss naming anybody. "Old! Hat! Green! Glasses!"
We are now approaching my stop. I'm tempted, terribly tempted, to depart from the far doors of our car, out of range of the guy with the bike, but my need to hear my own identifier overwhelms my fear of what it may be. I do a quick self-assessment. My crew cut is fairly recent, my hair is pretty thin anyway...will it be "Bald!"? Or maybe he will comment on my oversized short-sleeve orange bowling shirt? "Orange!" Oh, please...don't let it be "Fat!"
I'm wearing cargo shorts today, which sometimes causes my co-workers to comment on my over-developed calves, the last vestige of my bodybuilding days. I would definitely be happy with "Shorts!"
The announcement is made: "Grand Central Terminal, 42nd Street." We roll to a stop, the doors open, and people are actually holding back from leaving the train because they want to hear what the guy with the bike says about the others. Finally, fearful of the doors closing, I push past the guy with the bike and hear, "Muscles!"
Guy with the bike, I take it all back.