06.23.2000

There were four Black men sitting across from her. On her far left was an African-American dozing off. Next was an African guy, with empty hands, who occasionally glanced in her direction. The Indian or Guyanese man was wearing a white shirt and tie and had a soft briefcase. I was next, sitting in a crossway bench trying to take in a chapter on Windows NT security features.

As soon as I got on the 1 a.m., Bronx-bound D train, this same young woman came forward from behind me and sat down across from us four. I thought it was because some Dominican kids were being loud where she had been sitting.

Mine was the only seat perpendicular to the aisle so I caught a distracted, sideways glance of her walking. The clanking of her gold, strapped, platform shoes died into the train’s propulsion drone. Her dress was orange or some bright color that looked as equally bright as her skin, her hair, and the empty seats next to her. When she sat down I could tell she had cleavage and that a good deal of her legs and thighs were showing.

>All day long I joke to myself about the perks of my job. If I am not sitting in a dainty Upper East Side apartment watching pigeons fly between brownstones, I am traveling on the street or subway laughing inside about all the summer sites around me. Of course, I mean the powerful architecture, the surprising street art, the underground musicians, and the endless seas of women. I just can’t believe the all the ways that women leave me absolutely amazed: the texture of their dresses, the splits and patterns of their skirts, the colors of their simple blouses, their if-you-want-to-kiss-the-sky-you-better-learn-how-to-kneel jeans, their confident gaits, bold sprints into traffic, dancing hair, captured smiles, skyward laughter. And most amazing of all, the swirling, steaming-hot scents of perfume, shampoo, and deodorant riding a train’s air-blast when I pass women on subways or share close spaces. I finally realized that there is a cartoonish Tasmanian Devil living in my mind that’s trained on women! But tonight Taz wasn’t his regular self. <

Of course, the polite thing to do was not to stare at her or her body, but I have a peculiar way of watching the watchers to gauge how attractive a woman is. Yet they also left her alone, except for furtive squinting looks as if to confirm that she was really there. Still, with her eyes closed, our politeness was precarious: at any moment we could stare freely at this beautiful young woman. Lusting for her like four lucky woodsmen watching Goldie Locks peacefully asleep between the roots of a tree trunk.

Once, I turned to look out of my window, only to be confronted with a perfect reflection of the young woman cast up-on the tunnel’s shifting darkness. Admittedly, I looked at her thighs and turned away in chagrin. My profile thereafter was stern to tell her that I didn’t mean to do that.

> Skin color can tell where you get off the train in this city. If it’s the No. 4 line, and you are White, then most likely you’ll get off at 86th Street-Lexington Avenue. If you are smart (or prejudiced) you’ll scan the people sitting down and look for White folks to stand near to. When 86th Street comes, you’ll get a seat north to the Bronx. <

She kept extending her legs into the aisle and shifting her platform shoes. For a second I thought she wanted to tease us and even fathomed that she wanted someone to make a move on her. But these are the things you ponder when you are trying to understand a situation that is odd: it was 1 a.m. on a Bronx-bound D train and this lady didn’t get off where the White folks usually get off.

To my amazement she’d been keeping her eyes closed all along, but not to avoid looking at us. It finally occurred to me that her body language was that of someone who was very tired and maybe a little tipsy.

By about 125th Street-Harlem my interest Windows NT security had disappeared, I was more concerned with this lady getting home. The Dominican kids behind me were still a little loud. Ostensibly, I turned around to see what was going on. I was really scanning the other passengers on the train car. The kids weren’t concerned with her, and everyone else was into their own business. So long as no one boarded, it seemed she’d be OK.

> Waiting on the platform for your train to halt is like watching the Wheel of Fortune rattle to a stop. Slowly, the rows of beautiful women coast by, as the under-carriage clangs and screeches. Not only do you hope the door opens exactly where you are standing, but you also hope to board near a classy woman. <

At 161st Street-Yankee Stadium we lost the African-American guy, next at One Seven Oh-Street the African guy got off reluctantly with one last glance. There were still two empty seats next to her, so all it would take was the wrong male passenger and this lady’s night could turn out badly. At about the same stop, one other man boarded our train car. He looked skuzzy in his thin-rimmed glasses and unbuttoned shirt, but he steered clear of the empty seats next to her and headed behind me. That was a good sign.

It was nearing 179th Street-Tremont Avenue, my stop, and I had to decide what to do. The woman still had to get home when she surfaced and there was danger in that too. The D train runs under a very wide, sometimes-desolate street called The Grand Concourse. Spanning out from it are numbered streets and named avenues with six-story apartment buildings and multiple family homes. This time of night you are likely to find small groups of kids or old-timers just hanging out in the shadows. There were also drifters to worry about. It would be smart if she took a gypsy cab the rest of the way home, but who knew what she would do.

Just the Guyanese guy and I were left now. The older Black lady reading a magazine was gone and the young boyfriend and girlfriend sitting apart from Blondie were preparing to get off.

It took a little courage to stand in front of her and six “Hey Misses” to pierce the rumble and rouse her. Seeing how sleepy she was, my question probably sounded to her like, “...You wanna go home with me?” But I was really asking her if she’d be OK getting home. To which she murmured at my compass, “...No...that’s all right. Be O.K.”

When I spun out of my seat to face her, I saw over my shoulder that the skuzzy Hispanic guy was staring straight at her. Already, he had taken in more of her than all four us during the entire ride. I still got off the train and didn’t look back. I thought that at least my move alerted her that she was being watched.

> Earlier that day I read the cover of the Daily News when a Texas man was executed after putting up a big fight, claiming he was innocent until the end. Upon his news, I felt that as someone who could make the time and is empowered, I did nothing to learn of his case. A life was perhaps ended mistakenly and I did nothing. The same goes for the Mumia fellow and the other countless unfair events that happen to man and nature. I feel like I don’t do enough to defend worthy causes.

Dawn came upon me as I wrote this story. It occurred to me as I ate an empty pita that I was part of a different ‘march’- The Million Day March. We get up too often with tons of work foremost on our minds. But when the tests of humanity come upon us we step up to the task. So Friends, I am very glad to be on this planet with you. <