by
I know that subway etiquette says you're not supposed to stare at people on the train. You're supposed to look at ads of Dr. Z who will cure your acne and give you the face of a supermodel. Or you're supposed to look at your feet and wonder, I just bought these damn shoes, how did they get so beat up? Or you're supposed to look at the pole you're gripping and think about the 20 billion germs that are making their way to your nose right now.
But I can't do that, I like to look at people's faces. Most people try to avoid eye contact, so I can be uninhibited in my staring. But sometimes they see me, and that's when I get in trouble.
A few years ago, I was leaning against the doors and staring at the woman across from me. She had these amazing zig-zag corn rows woven into her hair. I was listening to my walkman, engrossed in my own fantasy about making my hair look like that, when I noticed that she wasn't happy with the attention. I saw her lips curl under and her eyes narrow and her neck start pushing her head around in counter-clockwise circles. I couldn't actually hear what she was saying, but I got the point. She was about to jump over her baby stroller and beat my face into the pole.
The doors opened at just the right time and I jumped off. It wasn't my stop, but I figured I'd be better off walking than licking those 20 billion germs.
You'd think I would have learned my lesson. But no, I've just learned how to look away really quickly if someone notices I'm staring. You see, I have a little game I play to entertain myself. I like to make up everyone's life story in my head.
That guy on the downtown 4 train. He's balancing his double mocha frappuccino in one hand and the Wall Street Journal in the other. He hates his job. He yells at his secretary and spends his afternoons looking at porn on the Internet.
That woman on the uptown 2 train slumped over her Toys R' Us bag. She just finished a long day washing dishes in a fancy midtown restaurant. She can't wait to get home in the Bronx to soak her sore feet and play with her 9-month-old baby.
Those drunk 20-somethings on the L train. They live in the East Village, but invade Williamsburg on weekends to hang with the hipsters. Don't they know that Bushwick is the next hot spot for young, hip, wanna-be artists?
I'm sure I'm usually wrong about the people I analyze on the train. And they're probably making wrong assumptions about me too: Who's that psycho with the beady eyes? I bet she lives alone with 7 cats and stalks her favorite romance-novel authors.
Somehow, this thing I do makes me feel closer to my fellow New Yorkers. It's my own private way of sharing an otherwise boring part of daily life with seven million people. Even though they try to ignore me and pretend they're alone with their I-pod and Daily News, I know that we are all in this together. At least until the doors close and they leave me standing alone on the platform.