Wednesday, October 12, 2005, Early Morning, Brooklyn Bound L This morning a boy half my age (that would make him about 11) tried to impress me. There I was looking less than desirable, covered in sweat from the two hour workout I had just finished, when this boy comes through the rear door giving me the eye from behind his glasses. As he comes closer, his eyes move to my chest, which even when restrained by two sports bras, is still rather ample. Coming back to face level, he winks. Next thing I know, he’s hanging from the bars on the ceiling of the subway car, banging out pull-ups, all the while maintaining eye contact with me. His expression seemed to say, “Hey, you look like you just worked out. Well look at me… I work out too. And I am really good at it. And I like your boobs.” I have to say I was kind of impressed… he did do a lot of pull ups. Tuesday October 11, 2005, Late Afternoon, Brooklyn Bound L I am feeling very self-conscious. Have you ever been on a train packed full with after work commuters and every one of them is… absolutely beautiful? And I am not talking about the “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” kind of beauty; I am talking about the universal, undebatable, ridiculous kind. These beautiful, gorgeous, hot men and women aren’t even wearing the stress of the workday on their faces (as regular commuters do); instead they look like they have stepped directly from a spa, into the train. The broad-chested, impeccably dressed men sitting in front of me look like they have been pulled from an editorial in an Italian fashion magazine. They in turn are checking out the two girls beside me who personify the word supermodel. The blonde one on the left is smacking her lips, and putting on this obviously practiced far off look that I am sure someone once told her looked hot. (I will grudgingly admit that it does.) At times her gaze strays to Mr. Italian Model Guy and his equally astonishing friend, making sure they are watching her. And they are, when they are not looking at her friend on the right, who is (if possible) taller and thinner, with rich, dark skin and a graceful neck. Across from the supermodel girls is an amazing, curvaceous redhead with flawless skin. You know how people often comment that redheads are either ugly or gorgeous with no in between? This girl is stunning. Every toss of that red mane attracts admirers from the farthest reaches of the subway car. The guy behind her is craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of her face, but cannot, so he settles for her butt instead. He can only be described as… hot. He is scruffy with ridiculous eyes that are having a ridiculous effect on all the women on the train… the men too. If the redhead turned around and met those eyes, it would surely be love… or at least a passing, very physical infatuation. I could go on, but it’s just all too much. And I am relieved when my stop comes and I am walking among mortals again. Monday, August 29, 2005, Evening, Smith and 9th Bound G I was eavesdropping on a boy and his iPod today and he was listening to that song by Atmosphere, “Shhh.” It’s about being proud of where you’re from. I like that song; I like that phenomenon. People are almost always proud of where they are from… I have heard people born and raised in the likes of Xenia, Ohio swear pride up and down for their hometown. Say hometown and people get dreamy eyed, nostalgic, lost in memories of elementary school playgrounds, grade school crushes and high school parties and formals. Hometowns breed football stars, prom queens and math team champions... And as I sit on the G train, I wonder where everyone is from, especially this boy with the iPod… Which ones are native New Yorkers and which call the west coast home? Which are from Norway? Which just moved from Montana or are secretly devoted to Wisconsin? Whose eyes glaze over with a far away look when you mention Vermont? (Vermont is the best state ever.) “So if the people laugh and giggle when you tell ‘em where you live, Say shh...say shh…” Thursday, February 10, 2005, Morning, Manhattan bound G  It’s just turned 7am. On the G train, a pack of young black kids, no older than thirteen, saunter into my car at the Myrtle-Willoughby stop. I am amused by the very serious, very complex handshakes that they exchange with their friends already on the train. I am more amused at their conversation about the “gangsta bitches” that fist fought their boys that day before. I guess these gangsta bitches were good fighters because the boys expressed their desire never to have to fight any of them…  “Yo… you know when my moms used to fight back in the day… you know what she did?” The shortest of the group asks in the midst of the excited voices.  “…we don’t care…” someone murmurs. Undeterred by this the boy goes on. “She used to put razors in her hair…”  “Yeah, girls still do that.” One of the older boys says, unimpressed. “You know, they put their hair all in a bun and put a razor in that shit…” The boy looks at me briefly, eyeing my short afro. “Only if they have long hair though.” He says it as if to say, ‘don’t get any ideas.’  I often put pencils in my hair; I figure if a pencil can fit, so can a razor. I just smile back at him.  Wednesday, February 9, 2005, Evening, Brooklyn bound “L” This girl in front of me… at first glance she is flawless. I am pressed up against the door and she is pressed almost fully against me (I am slightly turned on). I think about what a guy might think looking at her (sex). I think about the guys she would really appeal to (every guy). Here she is… thin, blonde wisps falling into blue eyes, turned up nose, pouty mouth, perfectly arched eyebrows, even, golden skin (perfection).  I don’t notice the hairs until she starts saying unnecessarily mean things to her friend about the dark haired hipster girl behind them. The more mean things she says, the more hairs I notice. And these are no ordinary hairs… they are intrusive, dark, coarse, beardlike hairs, growing out of her perfectly browned, smooth cheek. They are like yucky, little spiders wiggling out of her face.   Moral of the story, ladies? Don’t say mean things about people or hair will grow out of your face in the form of a man beard and ruin your beauty.  Tuesday, February 8, 2005, Evening, Downtown “6” So, I was at this trivia night at this bar in Brooklyn, Ripple… one of the questions asked where one might find a person committing frottage. What is frottage you might ask? (I didn’t know before this). Frottage, a noun, pronounced frô-täzh, from the French, frotter-to rub, is the act of rubbing against the body of another person, as in a crowd, to attain sexual gratification. The answer to this question was the subway. Ladies, has frottage ever happened to you on the subway? Have you ever been just minding your business, maybe pressed against the door, face towards it, when all the sudden you feel a stranger grinding against your thigh/butt area. Or maybe you are facing front and he is grinding you like a horny teenage boy from the side, against your hip. Or maybe you are even face to face and he is grinding shamelessly against your breasts. There are many variations on this. (And it doesn’t necessarily have to be a man doing the grinding; I have heard of this happening the other way around.) Anyway… so the first scenario: You are facing the door and you feel the man behind you move up against you. At first you think it is an adjustment or a mistake, but then it becomes harder… more rhythmic. You grip the hand rail and your breathing stops. You look at the reflection of the man behind you in the subway car window and you see that it is a man. A Hasidic Jewish man… now they are not allowed female contact, so you find this particularly disturbing… You are debating whether to swing your heal back into his groin, use your elbows, or confront him verbally, when the train stops and he pushes his way off. You vow that next time you will take action quicker. Beware of frottage. Tuesday, October 5, 2004, Late Night, Uptown “6” Peter has the crazy eyes and, even though I don’t really know him, he is sitting this close to me, his sour whiskey breath making the hairs on my neck wilt. He is talking about how the world has done him wrong and the sheer volume of his drunken voice embarrasses me. He would be very nice if he just washed his hair, changed his clothes and drank a little less. Really he would be. He says he wants to take me home and get tantric. (I laugh and think of the Roots.) He says he really can’t even wait… Sunday, October 3, 2004, Early Morning “G” I get on the “G” in Greenpoint and I am smiling. It feels like fall and I spent the night in a great big brownstone, which even under construction was palatial. It had a winding staircase; it had airy rooms. And I am smiling, sitting, and across from me this boy is also smiling. His hair is short and his eyes are blue. I look away. When I look back to find him still smiling, almost staring, I can’t help but smile back even bigger. A smiling contest ensues and my big cheeks and gapped tooth front grin wins. I look away after my victory until the “L” connection where I get off… he’s at my heels. He says hello and I say how are you. It is with his answer that I realize he can barely speak English. Wednesday, August 11, 2004, Early Morning, Uptown “9” HER: I am not one to make noise on the subway… really, I am ridiculously afraid of someone mistaking me for a non-New Yorker... for a common tourist. So usually I sit quietly, in perfect posture, directing my eyes accusingly at those who are causing unnecessary clamor. But tonight I am giggling so hard. Tonight I am easily the loudest person on this subway car, or on the whole subway for that matter… And tonight I have company. And he and I have become the proud new owners of a pirate bear with a mutated skull and cross bones on his ill-fitting hat, a young boy with what appears to be a burned nose, and a head bigger than his sofa, and a bargain bottle of Florida Water cologne. This all makes me giggle; some people might think I have been drinking (I do catch the dreadlocked boy with the angled face looking at me curiously several times...) but I have not. I had two glasses of water at the bar. What makes me giggle the most is that this boy, who is sitting so close, who has his arm around me... this boy has the same facial symmetry as Jude Law. And I am nervous about this so I giggle. And he is only getting better looking by the second... And like I said, I haven't even been drinking. HIM: I've ridden this train a hundred times. It's my daily worn-in route, it's MY train, but suddenly there's this girl sitting beside me---a pretty, giggling girl---and I'm surprised to find my arm around her shoulder. She can't stop giggling. I wonder if maybe her shoulder is ticklish. I wonder if she'll ever stop. Part of me hopes she doesn't. I realize the 9's not all that bad when you've got a shoulder to cradle. A gang of Brazilians come in from the neighboring car. They're all dreadlocked and stubbled, and one of them catches my eye. I think of Portuguese... I think of Joao Gilberto... I think of telling him about the Caipirinha I drank at Barazo earlier that night. I think of telling this girl with the ticklish shoulder about how Caipirinha is Brazil's National Drink, and that I ordered it because Barazo is a Brazilian Bar. I think of revealing to her my earlier fantasy, of walking into Barazo and ordering two Caipirinhas---about how this trivial plan was the axis around which our entire night was structured... some stupid nervous guy thing, trying to impress his date early-on. And it's not that I hold it against her for ordering a water; it was irresistibly cute; but now, moving fast on the 9, with the dreadlocked Brazilian and my arm on her shoulder, I feel like admitting the fantasy. Luckily, she's still giggling. July 16, 2004, Afternoon, Brooklyn Bound “N”  The man next to me has a small, white pamphlet and a loose flowered shirt. The pamphlet says “paid in full” on the front, over an image of crosses dotting a desolate landscape. Immediately I am thinking, “Paid in Full”… Eric B and Rakim… But when I peer over his shoulder as he studies the inside, I see that the first line reads, “You are in debt because of your sins.” And I think, Eric B and Rakim had the right idea… this pamphlet is questionable.

Sunday April 25, 2004, Afternoon, Uptown "6"

Four years ago I was the girls across from me. They are huddled close together, giggling, talking about their summer plans. "Can you believe it's the end of our freshman year already?" The dark haired girl asks her friend overly incredulously. "I know, right?" her friend answers, wide eyed.

I ask myself if I can believe that four years have gone by and I am about to graduate from college. I can't...I feel too young yet. I feel like I should be giggling right along with these girls. Instead I giggle inside, thinking about how good it will feel...

Saturday, April 24, 2004, Brooklyn bound "D"

I am riding the "D" and the ride is long. I am remembering the Cosby Show episode where Cousin Pam comes to stay with the Huxtables and wants to go to a party in the Bronx. The Huxtable curfew is 10:00pm on weekdays and it is 9:00 when Pam's friends come to pick her up. When Cliff and Claire ask her how she is going to get from Brooklyn to the Bronx and back in an hour she answers, the "D" train.

This long ride only makes me more positive that Cousin Pam could not have possibly made curfew that night. She would have had to take another train and a bus anyway.

Friday April 23, 2004, Downtown "6"

Everyone on the train is a couple. Everyone. Everyone is making doe eyes and holding hands and smiling into each other's eyes. It is spring and they are in love. And I am bitter. Biter, bitter, bitter. Because I am the only one not in a couple. Hmph, I will just read my latest issue of Maxim. There, that's better.

Sunday, April 18, 2004, Afternoon, Uptown "6"

I feel empty inside; I long for Mr. Charlie Sheen look-alike guy. I ride the "6," uptown, downtown, over and over in vain. He is not riding today. I am holding back disappointed tears. Okay, I am kidding

Saturday, April 17, 2004, Evening, Downtown "6"

Oh my! Oh my, oh my, oh my! Can it be real? I blink my eyes. It is! It is Charlie Sheen guy again. Turn back the clock thirteen years and I would be in heaven. Twice in two days. Today Mr. Charlie Sheen look-alike is looking very much like the real Charlie Sheen on Spin City. Our eyes meet and he gives me that earnest Charlie Sheen frown concentrated eyebrows, strong eyes. I think he is sucking in those cheeks just the slightest bit as well. I look away, and I look down, and I can't hold in the laughter any longer. This guy has made my week. I wonder if he is a New Yorker. I wonder why I am so lucky as to see him twice in a twenty-four hour period.

Friday, April 16, 2004, Afternoon, Uptown "6"

This guy looks like Charlie Sheen and he knows that. I can tell by how he keeps deliberately tilting his head and setting his features in a practiced-Charlie-Sheen-like expression. I am not sure how much good it does him these days to look like Charlie Sheen, but he seems to think it's to his advantage. The lady next to me keeps readjusting her long, nylonned legs, I think, in hopes of catching his attention. Perhaps she is reliving moments of such Sheen classics as "Cadence" and "Hot Shots Part Deux," in her mind.

When I was little I loved Charlie Sheen like I love David Bowie now. I would think of him and my young heart would hurt. I had a magazine cut out of him in my hard cover pink diary. It was a still from "Cadence" and I would look at it at least three times a day, longingly, not quite understanding the impossibility of the age difference. Once I even called the operator to get his phone number. She was confused and gave me the correct time instead.

The guy is flexing against the poles. Jeeze. I hope he is aware, Charlie Sheen wouldn't be riding the uptown "6" anyway.

Sunday April 4, 2004, Manhattan bound "J"

Letting things go. I am sitting here thinking about the concept. In theory it should be easy; the very nature of letting things go connotes ease...the mental picture of every problem, every thought, all that you cant leave behind, just gently slipping away from you, leaving you in a relaxed state.

Ben told me over and over to let things go, and over and over again I swore I would. That last day in Washington Square Park I tried so hard to leave everything on that checker table, in that tree And later on the train I tried to leave all those feelings behind. Let them go; let that whole part of me go. But no matter how I tried, how I blocked, how I pretended them away with imaginary monsters chasing them, they came back.

And after he left there were only more things I couldn't let go of - things that weren't even there before. And every day would be a struggle; these things would weigh so heavily that my heart would anchor my body until I just couldn't move. Or thought I couldn't.

And then today. Today I sat across from another distraction. Across from the person who made me believe I was letting things go. And as much as I wanted him to meet my eye, he wouldn't. As much as I wanted to be the reason for his smile, I wasn't. His eyes were only sad. And I finally realized right there and right now on this train snaking out of Brooklyn, that he told me he couldn't, but I knew I could. I can. Let things go.

Saturday, April 3, 2004, Uptown "6"

He has shellacked hair. Like a greaser. Like he is real slick. He is sneering. Like tough. But we know it's just a practiced look that has become permanent. He's an out of towner. He's barely ridden the subway at all. Five times tops. He rides a hog. In a small town. Where the buildings are close to the ground and there are no such things as hipsters. He is simpler really, than he lets on. He is looking at the baby and the momma. The baby's fingers are all around the momma's hands. The momma is worried about sanitation and the baby is worried about the loss of those warm fingers to suck. And for a minute the tough guy, the real tough guy, makes a soft face for the baby and the momma. And then it's his stop and he's sneering again.

Friday, April 2, 2004, Uptown "6"

Someone told me to watch out for cynicism because it makes you only recognize what you hate. He said forget that and instead point out and remember only what you love. Even if the subway is so dirty and the smell of one unwashed is almost overwhelming, he says, remember that you love this earth so much that you want to stay forever. And don't die on the subway. Figuratively that is.

Friday, March 26, 2004, Brooklyn bound "M"

Sometimes I like to take the train to the Brooklyn Bridge in the evening and run across to Brooklyn and back. It's lovely; the only bad thing is the sweat afterwards. I don't mind a good workout sweat, but it seems the train is always crowded on my ride back and I don't think the other people really like the sweat. They usually inch away from me curiously as I try to play the drenched sweat look off cool.

Today I am a little tired and I want to sit, so when a seat is free, I take it. The boy across from me seems to really like my wet look and is giving me the eye and nodding suggestively to the open space beside him. I am thinking that maybe he has bad eyes and can't see the sweat streaming from my forehead. I am glad he is not sitting closer because I smell like I just ran a marathon. I can feel my sweatpants sticking to the seat underneath me and I am mortified thinking about the sweat spot I will leave when I get up. I try to think of creative ways to hide the sweat, (I am afraid people are going to think I wet my pants), but the door is across and diagonal from me, so someone is going to see no matter what I do. My stop comes and I dart out of my seat and off, looking back quickly to see a big, damp spot where my sweaty butt had just been sitting. All I can do is giggle, as I wonder what that boy thinks of me now.

Saturday, March 27, 2004, Uptown "6"

The girl is quietly dreaming away, leaning against the boy. His arm is around her, protecting, with his hand gently on her arm. The boy is looking far away, meeting the girl in her dream. The connection between them is strong and their dreams are filling up the car. All the other girls and boys on the train are looking on in peaceful envy.

Friday, March 19^th, 2004, Evening, Downtown "6"

It's not always as fun to ride the subway alone. Sometimes I miss my companion, although I know I can ride fine alone; sometimes it's just better to share the interesting, funny things with someone else.

I am lonely, pressing my face against the window between 23^rd and 14^th Streets to see the abandoned station. I wish there were another nose pressed against the window beside me, another person imagining what lurks in those dark, forgotten stations. And it is no fun when you are alone, mischievously pretending to be asleep at the Brooklyn Bridge station, when the loud speaker cracks that it is the last stop and everyone must get off, so that you can ride around through the old city hall station, back uptown. Those high chandeliers, dusty windows and high arches over graffiti and rubble just aren't as mysterious, historical and amazing when you are all alone.

And it is just no fun without someone to link arms with, someone whose shoulder you can rest your tired head on at the end of the day, someone who will make you feel cozy in this big city, on the crowded subway.

Saturday, March 13th, 2004, Afternoon, Downtown "9"

"Yo, you in a gang o somethin'?" This one is another charmer, I can tell. Although I know he is directing that eloquently stated question at me, I pretend I don't realize it. He continues, "Yeah, 'cuz I can see yo tat. Looks like you in a gang o' somethin."

There is no mistaking that he is talking to me; my sweatshirt has ridden up a little in the back and when I lean forward the "K.K." initials are plainly visible. I can feel him staring and breathing on me (his breath smells like tuna, or maybe I am imagining it). I turn to face him; his eyes are steady on my lower back and I can tell from his look that he is imagining what it would look like if he was in another position, one that might be more compromising for me. I pull my sweatshirt to cover my tattoo and wish that these kinds of people would stop giving me their attentions.

Friday, March 12th, 2004, Afternoon, Uptown "6"

The doors are open for too long, waiting for the express train. No matter how hard we all will those doors to close and the train to move, nothing budges. So then open the doors of conversation. The girl next to me sighs and rolls her eyes in an extremely exaggerated manner. I smile politely at her when we make eye contact.

"You from here?" she asks. Without waiting for my response she lets me know that she is from Kentucky. "My great-grandfather was banned from the state of Kentucky. He liked to shoot at people, just to scare 'um though He would take the gunpowder from the shells so that it was more like paintball."

I smile; I don't know how that works, but I appreciate the story anyway. A few people get off to catch the express train.

Friday, March 6^th 2004, Afternoon, Queens-bound "W"

These little girls have little feet, in little shoes, which can barely reach the floor. They wear wooly, red tights and frilly denim dresses with childlike embroidery. These little girls have cute little noses and soft wispy hair, pulled back with brightly colored, plastic, animal barrettes. Their little hands hold tight to little backpacks with Mattel illustrations. But these little girls are bigger than me with their high-heeled little shoes and their short, short frilly denim. They are bigger with their cute faces smudged with cover girl make up and their little hands decorated with long, press on nails. These little girls speak older than me, talking about boys and sex and drugs in a way that I did not when I was that little, and do not now that I am this big.

Saturday, March 7^th, Evening, Uptown "A"

There is a tiny, tiny, Hispanic man bobbing down the platform edge, carrying a big '80s style boom box that shimmers, silver and black, ghetto fantastic, with old school charm. He is grunting along to the Cypress Hill beats blaring out of the oversized speakers. I am reminded of when I was in the sixth grade and I listened to Cypress Hill with headphones at night, so my mom wouldn't hear. The tapes were contraband, copied for me by the boy with the mushroom/bowl cut hair, in my class, whom I had a crush on. Thinking of all this makes me nostalgic, and I smile at the man with the boom box. He looks back and I know he thinks I am flirting. I wish I had a boom box like that.

Sunday, March 8^th, Morning, Manhattan-bound "J"

I am waiting for something good to happen, so I can write about it in my Subway Chronicles diary. I want to witness something unusual, so I can be clever and witty and all the readers say, "Hey, that Kristen Kendrick is so clever and witty..." But nothing really happens. Everyone is on their best Sunday behavior. And I am trying, but it's like constipation.

Sunday, February 29, 2004, Evening, From the Queens-bound "G" to the uptown "A"

All I wanted to do was catch the 7:30 bus back to Rochester... well, I didn't...all I really wanted was to stay in NYC, but I couldn't. So I packed as fast as I could, forgetting things in the process, and ran to the "G". The Queens-bound "G" was a half hour coming, but the Manhattan bound "L" was there when the "G" met it at the Bedford stop. I thought I had plenty of time, but when it came time to take the "A" uptown from Eighth Avenue, it turned out I would end up with no time at all. The trains wouldn't come and the street above was filled with taxis that were filled themselves. The platforms were so crowded and the people so agitated the only smile I saw was that of the lady who looks like Elton John...the one who comes around to collect money after her very unique synthesizer performances. (She's cute and she does a killer cover of "The Girl From Ipanema".)

I missed the 7:30 bus by the time I got a cab. I hate the bus; I would rather take the subway a million times over. But it's funny how you come to meet people in these circumstances. As I waited for the next bus, I snuck peeks of at the lady beside me; her nails were black underneath and her once light blue jacket was stained brown with dirt. Her ears were filled with fake diamond studs and small gold hoops. The voice over the intercom repeated for the umpteenth time that there were no subways running. This lady turned to me and asked, "Are they going to say that every two seconds?" A conversation was born.

She was nice...just wanted someone to talk to. Her problems made me remember how lucky I am and how I often forget how lucky I am and screw it all up. She was waiting to make a phone call the next day to a half way house in the Bronx to see if they would take her in. She had just come out of detox and she needed to get into the halfway house. She had inquired earlier, but they wouldn't take her, and the only way she could get into another one was to go through detox again. She told me the only way to get into detox again was to have alcohol in her system. So she had to go to the liquor store. (This reminded me how much I question and doubt the system of things.) She said she missed her husband; he was in a halfway house too. They had been married for five years and she was confused without him. We talked until my bus came. When I left, I felt sad to leave her.

Saturday, February 28, 2004, Evening, Shuttle from Grand Central to Times Square

I sat in the corner, with my face to the metal of the end of the car. The businessman stood diagonal from me. As I thought and thought, looking into the metal, which reflected my face back like a warped mirror, I felt the tears start to come. No matter how I tried to hide them, no matter how I bit my lip, furrowed my brow, or tapped my foot, they came and came. Quietly. The businessman looked on with curiosity. I wonder what he thought when he saw me cry.

Thursday, February 26, 2004, Evening, Uptown 6

I called Ben from the 59^th street stop on the "6". We agreed to meet at the 28^th street stop and go home from there. We were to meet in the middle car I would stick my head out the door and he would see me. I was giddy; at 28^th, I saw him walking as the train slowed to a stop, walking right next to the car I was on. I called his name, motioning wildly, and he got on and kissed me I imagined it was like the ending to a classic movie.

Sunday, February 22, 2004, Evening, Uptown "6"

Once again, my natural afro brings me attention on the subway, though this time it is not the admiration shown by the old man two weeks before. At Bleeker, seven or eight black girls tear onto the train, louder than the screeching of the train on the opposite tracks. They wear their hair in tight weaves, stiff perms and unnatural, long, red-streaked ponytails. They are yelling as if everyone on the train cared to know every detail of their ever so important lives, all the while flashing their matching red Sean John jumpsuits as if they were fine courtour. When they run out of things to yell about, they turn their attention to me and they are horrified by my hair. They make a mockery of it: "Oooo, look at her haiiiirrr! Ol' nappy, nappy fro UGLY!" By the time 28^th street comes, everyone on the train is looking back and forth, from them to me with curiosity. As I leave the train I can hear them chanting "Macy Gray, Macy Gray!" taunting me like they are schoolyard children. I do not look like Macy Gray. At all.

Monday, February 23, 2004, Late Afternoon, Brooklyn-bound "J"

The train sounds like a didgeridoo coming around the curve like it was coming out of the Australian outback. The lady with the black hat pulled low chews her gum to the beat of the movement, of the anticipation, of the people, waiting to get on the train. (She is still chewing that beat by Bowery.) Once the train hits Brooklyn, out of the tunnel, the black leather shoes, seemingly without a body, peek out at the other end other train rocking back and forth, happily, slowly and impatiently. Long, pink, lacquered, mamma nails click and tap on half full milk bottles and a plastic stroller handles. The beat becomes more frantic and everyone is chewing synchronized. Legs cross and toes tap, and Lorimer comes.

Thursday, February 19, 2004, Evening, Manhattan-bound "A"

How do you say class on the Manhattan-bound "A" train? "I grabbed you by the hair and now I'll start talking some shit!" Perhaps? This from the guy sitting directly across from me, a scar across his forehead and another across the bridge of his nose; "why do the bad guys always have scars (in the movies and in real life)?" I write on my notepad as he talks loudly on his cell phone to what must be his significant other. His black and red Nikes tap arrogantly, stretched almost to my bags across the floor. He has blue laffy taffy stretched between his blunt fingers and ice around his neck. He unwraps the laffy taffy and pitches the wrapper onto the floor; it lands amid a small pile of identical wrappers. I did not like him from the first sentence out of his mouth and I like him less now, as he throws his trash around the train.

When he has finished his conversation, he takes out another piece of sticky taffy and flings the wrapper straight ahead, into my face. I look up, furrowing my eyebrows into a severe look of offense. "I'm so sorry! I swear it just opened up!" He whines. I ignore him and a few minutes later he asks if I accept his apology. I give him one, curt nod.

When the door opens at Euclid, he reaches in his bag, pulls out another fistful of wrappers and throws them outside on the platform, so as not to hit my face again.

Sunday, February 16^th, Evening, Manhattan Bound "A"

There are over 350 miles between Rochester, NY and NYC. Driving, it takes six or seven hours. If you fly, you'll get there in about one hour. On the track at the gym here, I have run a little over 1,300 miles since freshman year; that's enough to go round trip to NYC once, and almost twice. Anyway, that's a lot of commuting to do every weekend. But when I drive, or if I fly, or if, by chance, I ran, none of these modes of transportation would provide the same interactions as when I ride the subway. In the car things are so personal; just a few people in a climate controlled vehicle, going wherever they choose when ever they choose to. The variables in the car are constant, as they are on a plane...but on the subway? Different people in and out all the time, heat and cold and noise and smells...people looking at you, you looking at people, people approaching you, invading your personal space...only black out the window, or Brooklyn, Queens or the Bronx. You get the picture. Think about these different interactions next time you take the subway, or the taxi, or the plane, or your town car, or when you walk, or run...which do you prefer?

Sunday, February 15^th, Afternoon, Downtown "6"

The lady with the grey hair is fidgeting and shuffling about across the car from me. She is a bigger lady, with a shapeless grey coat and big grey hair. Fine wisps jerk in and out of her face in synch with the jerking of the train. She sharply elbows the sleeping man to her left, while attempting to fix her flyaway wisps. He springs awake with a grunt and a twitch, looking at the lady and on the defense. She apologizes as he settles back down into sleep. The lady fidgets and shuffles some more, her movement again disturbing the man at her side. He opens his eyes, twitching his mustache up and down in annoyance at being woken a second time.

The lady pushes her knees out wide, much to the chagrin of her neighbors, revealing a frayed, grey, Jansport backpack. She leans, almost athletically, so that her head is between her legs, unzipping the bag. She rummages for a moment; her hand emerges with a tub of hummus. Closing the bag and settling back in her seat, she removes the lid and dips her pointing finger into the tub. Bringing the finger to her mouth, I can see a generous dollop of hummus lodged on top of her finger, under her nail. Her eyes widen with childlike anticipation as she inspects the hummus and then snatches it up with her tongue like a hungry bullfrog. She looks sensuously happy as she savors the taste in her mouth, then swallows. She does this until her stop, oblivious to the disgusted looks of those around her. I am glad she is so happy eating her hummus, but she really should have cleaned her hands first.

Saturday, February 14^th, Afternoon, Brooklyn Bound "L"

Here's a game to play with your significant other: (Happy Valentine's Day.)

1. Find a crowded subway platform.
2. Lose yourselves in the crowd separately, but not so much so that you cannot see each other clearly.
3. When the train comes, board separately, but make sure you are facing with unobstructed views of each other.
4. Admire each other at this distance and try to connect; take in all you find beautiful about one another.
5. Make significant, flirtatious eyes at each other until the people between you curiously turn to see what you are looking at.
6. When you reach your destination, reconnect and note how giddy you feel.
7. When you get home, write a missed connection post on Craigslist.

Sunday, February 8, 2004, Evening, Downtown "6"

There is a girl, just through the turnstile, slipping her card back into her purse; she looks so sad. We are at the farthest end of the platform and she sits down behind us on the wooden bench. She pushes her dark hair back and starts to cry. She looks like this act is very much against her will, but she can no longer help it. She's quiet; just tears, no sound. I ask Ben if it would be odd to try to cheer her up - people are wary of being approached, I know. He shrugs and tells me I should try. I dig through my bag looking for something that might make this pretty girl smile. I find the Christmas card Alexis and Agnes gave me still in my bag, left over from the holidays. It's a little worn, but the reds and the greens are still vibrant. I think maybe this girl will think I am crazy giving her this card with Alexis and Agnes dancing in their matching polka dotted underwear, one playing the accordion and the other playing the guitar. But maybe she will find it funny, so I approach her. She looks at me in a cautionary manner. I tell her to cheer up while extending the card to her. She looks at it, takes it, looks again and smiles.

There is a boy on the other side of the bench; he's been there all along, watching. Now he slides over to offer his own sympathy. The train comes. I hope she wasn't crying about a boy.

Saturday, February 7, 2004, Manhattan-bound "J"

"Ain't too many sistas keepin' it natural these days," rasps an admiring voice at my side. I look; his eyes are glued, fascinated, to my short afro. "It fits you," he says, finally bringing his weathered gaze from my hair to my eyes. I smile and thank him; he himself has a shorter version of my own style and there is a sympathetic understanding in his eyes suggesting that he has an idea as to what it takes to maintain such a natural style.

"Everybody wearin'...the...the weaves and the braids...hair all," he makes an up and down motion with his hands near his head, "permed." He sighs, shifting his thin body over the blue seats. I look around at the other black girls on the train, checking to confirm his statement. I see several slicked perms... some tight weaves, swaying to the motion of the train. Those who have overheard the old man touch their hair defensively and eye my natural hair with disdain.

At the Lorimer stop I rise to exit, smiling a last thank you at the old man beside me. He smiles back revealing a chipped front tooth. "Like a breath of fresh air," I hear him say as I walk off. As I leave the platform, I touch my hair. It is soft and springy and I feel a sense of pride and purpose.

Saturday, January 31, 2004, Afternoon, Uptown "6"

Everyone is so serious, reading intellectual books. It's quiet, then, a burst of sound. A tune is heard throughout the subway car; it is a mix between circus and videogame-themed music and cell phone ring tones (the sophisticated, downloaded kind). It swells, growing louder with each new set of notes It seems to be coming from the corner where no one is sitting, like there is a stereo that has been left under the seats. And everyone is pretending not to hear it; everyone is sitting so serious. But these are the things in life that should make people laugh. For me, all it takes is the sight of the mouth of the woman across from me, her lips twitching dangerously from seriousness toward hysterical laughter. Our eyes meet and we both start laughing hard. Everyone else is still pretending not to hear anything at all.

Kristen is a graduate of the Rochester Institute of Technology with her degree in photography and graphic design. She lives in Manhattan.