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. <

Hello there,
Here are some random and distubing musings I have had...I did say ‘disturbing’ didn't I?

***

1/6/00 7:52 AM
I was on the elevator at work Wednesday and I gave on of my former floor neighbors a big, cheery hello. He replied, "I'm OK, but you sound like to got LAYED!" I've heard this comment before for the same reason, and not just from a businessman on his way out to lunch. So I said to him with a big smile, "I've heard that before. But I'm just happy. You have to be happy in life."

Thursday I left work for home at 11:35 PM. I took the long way to the train station by walking six city blocks to Grand Central Terminal. As I crossed Vanderbilt, an older Muslim woman was simultaneously crossing 42nd Street, perpendicular to me. She had on the traditional head covering consisting of a large scarf flowing down her torso.

1/8/00 3:25 PM
At the same time a bulldozer came to stop on a red light, on 42nd Street and Vanderbilt. As the two of them headed towards each other a devious thought came to mind. What if the bulldozer just rammed into her and chopped off her legs? And then, lifted the bucket high into the air and bashed her over and over into the pavement? As harsh as it seems, I laughed inside that I would think such I mean thing. I remembered the Itch & Scratchy episode on the Simpsons where Itchy ties Scratchy to a log at a lumber plant. As the log heads ever so slowly towards the saw blade, Itchy gets so impatient that he pulls out an ax - cartoon style - out of thin air - and chops Scratchy to bits as he remains tied to the log. Now that stuff is funny!

1/8/00 3:55 PM
On Friday I left work around 8:30PM itching to play my Sting CD. It's occurred to me that I won't need a girlfriend, much in part because of how Sting sings of love. He sings the funniest and whimsical stories of any active artist that I know.

As I opened the door to the apartment, their came the boisterous sounds of adults with kids in their company. It seemed the family on my mother's side had decided to visit. Luckily, it was my mother's nicest nephew visiting from the Dominican Republic. Besides him, there were a few friends of his that my mom knew. I genuinely like Robert because he shoots straight and tells very funny stories. Eventually, the topic got around to my mother's houseplants, so I felt it appropriate to show off my three-stemmed red orchid.

1/8/00 4:04 PM
So my mom's nephew calls his friend Irving over to it and says to him, "You see this plant? It's always symmetric but there are many, many color variations." I agreed and told them of the white ones, and the neat spotted ones, etc. But there’s a special reason why I like orchids. So Irving says, "Hey, it looks just like a bat's face!" He just didn't get it...

1/8/00 3:37 PM
I was out shopping for computer repair tools today and thought it would be nice to patronize the stores in the Bronx as opposed to cash-rich Manhattan. After I got the needed tools at Sears, I stopped by Radio Shack for other accessories. As I walked towards the counter, I saw the same beautiful sales rep I've seen many times over the past years. It's always a surprise to see her, because I'm always thinking she's going to move on to bigger and better things. We chatted more than we usually do and then I left, I told her until next time...

Outside, I was regretting that I owed the public library $16 for over-due books. I've had this nagging feeling to read Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men" for months now. It's the kind of book that one needs to read many times in life. And now I'm at that point where my feelings…

1/8/00 3:46 PM
…and perspectives are in tune with the book's story. So fresh out of Radio Shack I pass this tiny bookstore tucked away between bigger clothing shops. I walk in and it feels just good to see the husband and wife proprietors;- it's a small family business. They don't seem to read my glances of someone who has a question to ask so I walk further in towards their older son helping a customer choose a coin book. It's my turn and I ask him, "...Of Mice and Men...." To which he replies, "The book?" And reaches around right next to us to pluck it from the shelf. Then he says, "I have the Cliff Notes for that." After I walked outside it occurred to me, he didn't get it either...

Marcos

03.09.2000

The Metrpolitan Transportation Authority (of New York) and Barnes & Bobles books have donated ad space and funds to promote poetry on our buses and trains. Typically, an excerpt or a full poem will be posted in cars for the riders to enjoy. There is one poem about a man and a woman on a train bound for upstate NY I think. They are strangers to each other, but the man decides to approach the woman with conversation. As she is reading, he says to her, "The trees look fine, don't they?" To which she comments, "Really, show me a tree that looks nice." He points one out to her and she says to him, "It's gone by already, the next time you see another, let me know," and then goes back to reading her book.

So last night I was on the train headed home, when I noticed a young woman sitting about six feet away. I noticed first the freckles that made her so beautiful, then the tiny earrings like pearls, and the necklace of the same half-pearls, twelve in number. Her lipstick was soft and simple, almost the color of her skin. Her hair was black and natural with slight spikes of hair stems. I don't know if she noticed me looking at her when I was standing. But I couldn't help but to take in her simple, but unique beautity before she or I got off.

I finally got a seat, almost across from her. I couldn't hep looking at her still, but her eyes avoided me. They drooped slightly and she looked very tired. But there was a tiny smile at one point, and I hoped that it was because she knew I was looking at her. I thought to myself that it was perhaps worth a shot to write her a note. The last time that I did this was in high school, so she was definitely something special to prompt a note. So I looked in my bag as I started to composed the note in my mind. I found a spare page from a repair work order, which I hoped had my name and company phone number on it. (It didn't, but the idea was to let her know what my impression of her was.) There were ramdom jottings already on the back of the paper, but I started anyway. I got these sentences down:

Senorita:
Perdoneme mi interupcion. Esta simple nota es para comendar su estilo de ser. La ultima vez que
hice esto con una mujer estrana f...

[Miss:
Pardon my interruption. This simple note is to commend your style. The last time that I did this
with a strange woman was...]

And there her stop came and my note was not finished. I watched her get off the train and I followed her in the crowd as long as I could. The train would start up again any second and I could find her again before the she reached the stairs. But the train didn't move, and instead went into stand-by as the conductor sorted out his or her instructions. By time we were moving, she was gone.

Maybe it was just something that I did to try, to perhaps have a thought to daydream about and smile over. What would I do if I saw her again? Should I keep the note with me and finish it when and if I see her again? What would she say or do if I reach out the note, and did say to her, 'Miss, you dropped this."?

I hope that I dream of it in my sleep; this would be just great. To wake up and remember that I dreamt of an encounter with her. In our dreams are minds are free.