This story was written in 2006. Times of abundant frequent flier miles have since ceased.
One Friday afternoon, I sat on the subway, pooped from weekly travels to and from Massachusetts. Nearly a year has passed, and each week is another confirmation that I will never enjoy the inconvenience of hopping on a plane every Monday and Friday while delays and cancellations aggressively burn my patience wick. Driving is an option, but Manhattan cabbies will make quick work of me, and I'd like to preserve some of my fuse for when I have children. I heard Haseem's got nothing on a Gerber baby.
Attendance on the train was sparse, a body on every three or so seats. A couple speaking Spanish sat across from me, the man hunched over consuming a slice, the lady browsing the free dailies. On Christopher Street, a thirtysomething woman boarded with a young petite girl and a stroller that could barely contain an unhappy male passenger. They sat a few feet away, the sliding door dividing us and granting me just enough distance to stare without the attention being felt. The boy in the carriage was obviously hungry, because the bottle soothed him instantly.
The girl possessed a mass of dark and busy curly hair, much like Felicity on Felicity before she chopped it off and launched an endless string of strand theories. Did she kill her show when she axed her hair? I digress.
The little girl's love for her brother was palpable even from my seat. When he was ready to spill out of the stroller, she attempted to pacify his ire by reaching in and giving him a tight cheek-to-cheek hug, the hearty kind usually reserved for the cameras. When it became apparent his hunger was for milk, not affection, she turned her attention to a free standing pole standing between us, erect and alone, free from clingy passengers for once. She approached it with hesitation and anticipation, much like how I feel when I board a roller coaster.
While her caretaker was preoccupied with the boy's happiness, the little girl with perfect olive skin carefully wrapped her miniature fingers around the cold, contaminated steel pole. She then launched a swing with a determined kick of the heel, one leg stretched straight out, the other bent inward, rushing to complete a full rotation while still suspended in air. The clumsy finish didn't deter her from attempting a squat, her bony horizontal arms pulling away from the axis while crouching her legs till the muscles felt thin. She wasn't sure of her routine yet, I knew. It lacked conviction, her questioning eyes told me. She glanced at the audience mid-rotation, perhaps seeking approval, perhaps displaying self consciousness she couldn’t reign in amidst elevation. But she also suppressed initial doubt, that indecision, the moment she enveloped a pole in front of strangers.
A star was born on the Metro, and I exited onto the platform with a stifled grin on my face, telling myself to stop being so twisted.
