What better brother than a blue-haired ponytail, sidled up as sloth, somehow close as kin. He is the first I look at with wide eyes, having momentarily forgotten the event, entertainment, sheer show of riding the New York subway alone.
To my left: a middle-aged man with a waist-long gray ponytail. Somehow, he has attempted (and mostly failed) to die it blue. Not sky blue or the blue of seas, but an almost navy that is somehow sadder than the gray.
To my right: a middle-aged man engaged in deep conversation with a nine-month old; complaining about his hair. "I wish I had your hair" he announces, to the child that swats at him in serious delight. "It stays in place, unlike my hair, which is just too silky." The mother tolerates him and the baby, when he turns the other way, swipes his hat and gloves.
Then the mariachis come on. Perhaps the expectation would be a muse at the music, but all heads turn downward and ipods are produced in sync and in such hurry that I know dollars are at stake. Small children look up and dance with their heads; I am made dizzy by the combination of live Mexican music and the speakers in the ears of the pony-tailed man beside me, loudly playing "Touch My Body" by Mariah Carey.
I have a seat. And I sigh at this delight, in my exhaustion, as having a seat is akin to winning the local lottery. It is worth the two dollars and the pretense at personal space (somehow always overwritten by the reality of subway riders) pulses through my veins.
That is, until, I am on the red train. I stand waiting on the 42nd street platform, where hoards of people sing and dance, beg and beckon. Between the drums, the chimes, the bartering and the consistent converting, my body shoots into a sensory overload I must have earlier become accustomed to. I laugh. I laugh out loud and, expecting to be noticed, look down embarrassed. However, in this world, this city, on this platform in the mud of midtown, I certainly do not stand out. My laughing cannot be heard above the chorused renditions of Somewhere Over the Rainbow or seen through the frozen, human statue of Michael Jackson in drag.
I have reconsidered my pre-conceived notions: there is no need for shrooms.
When the Number One train arrives, my racket of reality hurries past the orange warning line, forming herds, or hoards, or other shallow human patterns. The train is full. An old man at the front steps off to let the train clear and then is summarily pushed aside by the waiting passengers, thrown into this sea of creatures scantily clad at the first sight of summer. He is left off the train.
In his place, it seems, and directly pressed against my side, is a sketchy man of about 35. He groans and veers forward, his body contact almost entire. Between us is a bag and a seltzer bottle, for which I am eternally thankful (thank god for my laziness in throwing away empty containers). He smiles at me with shiny gold teeth and I turn up my ipod, the Kooks a perfect companion for this eternal experience (forty five minutes, I reckon), this delightful, distasteful, distinct of making my way home.
