Friday, March 26, 2004
On a slow day at the State House, I decide to return three of the seven prom dresses the daughter has wheedled down to. I'd been keeping these 'No-I-don't-think-so' dresses in my office for over a week waiting for just such a day. Nieman Marcus bag in hand, I head out an hour-and-a-half ahead of the lunch crowd. A light drizzle drives me underground to catch the subway over to the Back Bay station.
The crowds traversing the bowels of Boston bear no resemblance to the crowds you see during the commute hours. Not to mention that riding on a different subway line brings out an assortment in new flavors of mankind. By my observations, it looks like a lot of Boston's fifty-some-odd colleges use the subway system as a moving study hall during the mid-day hours. Headphones donned, students sit in corners of the train reading or writing out papers. I'm only speculating here but I sadly think a lot of the city's unemployed are traveling the underground as well. Baseball hats or hoods pulled down over their eyes, they sit like unhappy zombies staring down hard at the train's floor. Or maybe they are sleeping; it's hard to tell. Another large contingency consists of (and again I'm conjecturing here) older divorcees. The husband has left her for a younger woman, the children are grown, and she rides with an aimless lonely ache to the Copley Plaza mall with me. If I moved in closer, I might smell alcohol on her breath. She is well-dressed with the clothes her married lifestyle once afforded her.
A herd of us follow the labyrinth of stairs and corridors to the Orange Line. I turn a hairpin corner to find a man ahead of me filing one side of the staircase with his immenseness. He is dragging a small cart that seems to hold his entire worldly belongings. I presume he is homeless but on closer inspection perhaps not. His long black leather jacket doesn't fit Anna Bloviation's profile of a homeless person. He steps up to the next stair and pulls up his cart with him. He is visibly winded. A young black man jaunts up the stairs and takes the man's cart from him. "Heh thanks man," calls the gentleman in the black leather coat.
I reach the platform just in time for the doors to close in my face. This reminds me of the movie with Gwyneth Paltrow called Sliding Doors . The one storyline follows her day had she caught her train; the other follows her day had she missed it.
Out of nowhere come notes from an electronic keyboard that admonish the rudely departing train I have just missed. It is the man in the black leather coat. I see his face now. It is a wizened face with many stories to tell. The mixed crowd on the platform recognizes talent when they hear it and heads turn toward the gorgeous sorrow-filled voice singing New Orleans blues. His song will be short-lived. The tunnel exhales a gush of wind and belches forth a metallic screech to announce the next approaching train. A few people drop coins into the man's hat. I didn't bring my purse and so only have only a $5- and a $10-bill in my pocket. A bagel with cream cheese will do for today and I drop the $10 into his hat. I'm a sucker for good street musicians. He nods his head and continues singing. I would like to know about his stories but instead I step onto the train. The doors whoosh close. And that's that.
The crowds traversing the bowels of Boston bear no resemblance to the crowds you see during the commute hours. Not to mention that riding on a different subway line brings out an assortment in new flavors of mankind. By my observations, it looks like a lot of Boston's fifty-some-odd colleges use the subway system as a moving study hall during the mid-day hours. Headphones donned, students sit in corners of the train reading or writing out papers. I'm only speculating here but I sadly think a lot of the city's unemployed are traveling the underground as well. Baseball hats or hoods pulled down over their eyes, they sit like unhappy zombies staring down hard at the train's floor. Or maybe they are sleeping; it's hard to tell. Another large contingency consists of (and again I'm conjecturing here) older divorcees. The husband has left her for a younger woman, the children are grown, and she rides with an aimless lonely ache to the Copley Plaza mall with me. If I moved in closer, I might smell alcohol on her breath. She is well-dressed with the clothes her married lifestyle once afforded her.
A herd of us follow the labyrinth of stairs and corridors to the Orange Line. I turn a hairpin corner to find a man ahead of me filing one side of the staircase with his immenseness. He is dragging a small cart that seems to hold his entire worldly belongings. I presume he is homeless but on closer inspection perhaps not. His long black leather jacket doesn't fit Anna Bloviation's profile of a homeless person. He steps up to the next stair and pulls up his cart with him. He is visibly winded. A young black man jaunts up the stairs and takes the man's cart from him. "Heh thanks man," calls the gentleman in the black leather coat.
I reach the platform just in time for the doors to close in my face. This reminds me of the movie with Gwyneth Paltrow called Sliding Doors . The one storyline follows her day had she caught her train; the other follows her day had she missed it.
Out of nowhere come notes from an electronic keyboard that admonish the rudely departing train I have just missed. It is the man in the black leather coat. I see his face now. It is a wizened face with many stories to tell. The mixed crowd on the platform recognizes talent when they hear it and heads turn toward the gorgeous sorrow-filled voice singing New Orleans blues. His song will be short-lived. The tunnel exhales a gush of wind and belches forth a metallic screech to announce the next approaching train. A few people drop coins into the man's hat. I didn't bring my purse and so only have only a $5- and a $10-bill in my pocket. A bagel with cream cheese will do for today and I drop the $10 into his hat. I'm a sucker for good street musicians. He nods his head and continues singing. I would like to know about his stories but instead I step onto the train. The doors whoosh close. And that's that.
Comments:
Post a Comment
