L Train Tango

by Mary Bambino

     Two sets of framed eye sockets went glance for glance while the Canarsie-bound L swayed as subway cars often do within the trappings of railroad tracks. The quick and sudden jolts that robbed the passengers of stable footing provided the two opportunities to pivot their stance, rotate their hips and switch pant pockets to fiddle with.  While of course the talent of maintaining balance when standing on a subway ride speaks to the frequency of the rider, the lack thereof can suggest many things. Perhaps our occupants are consumed in thought, some mental fumble of a day's to-do list while coming and going from work or school or play. Perhaps our occupants are consumed in observation, captivated by the daily falling in love which so easily happens while surrounded by subway riders. On this occasion, with my two subjects, the faint stumble and fall tempted me to take a closer look.

     The pair was mirrored images of each other. Worn leather briefcases hung from manicured fingertips in a gingerly fashion, the handles sliding back and forth from pointer to thumb to pinky. As the train turned and the cases bounced off their legs, the velocity of gravitational recoil only weight could provide was replaced by a subtle, slow swish of leather. The briefcases were empty, mere accessories filled by a paper or two, perhaps a moleskin date book and a refillable ballpoint click pen, in black, with an easy slide tip. Such totes were matched with sharply pointed shoes constructed from the skin of a ferocious reptile made meek by the force of fashionable consumerism. Legs became covered by soft looking material; perhaps lightweight worsted wool paired to a jacket quite inappropriate as bodies pressed near in slight, flowery dresses or cropped denim shorts.

     Third and First Avenues came and went; my L train companions did not break free from the smudged, metallic bar to which they tightly grasped about their heads.  Headed into Brooklyn, my thoughts were left to assume, and with a curious sigh of defeat I silently concluded indeed all slightly interesting bearded men these days must reside in the glamorous borough.  

     Because it was reaffirmed the gentlemen would be in my proximity for a collection of minutes and because I was so captivated by their gestured tango, I shimmied my way near to listen to the exchanges. The conversation was consumed by endless, "could you imagine he" and "I can't believe she had the nerve to" in between a toss and turn of "in the middle of a meeting!" ending with a chuckled, "you should have seen the big man's face." The corners of my mouth twisted into a smile, a response to the proverbial back and forths so easily placed behind the cubical walls and coffee machines of some corporate establishment.  

     Moments passed and the conversation slowed. The train pressed on. Interactions between the gentlemen turned warm, juxtaposed to the mechanically chilled subway car air. Space easily filled with a game of nonsense verbal catch was replaced by the toss and throw of silent gesture. Gentle movements - a delicate grip of a forearm as the car jolted this way or that, responded to with the rubbing of the small of a back - such whispered touches could do no benefit other than a sweet reminder of affection. This understated, beautiful tango occupied the remainder of time I shared with my subway comrades until we would arrive at the Grand Street stop. The dance would end, called to a finish by the screeching halt of a subway car, a record players completion, and all would march to exit as mission bound ants.

Mary Bambino is a frequent L train rider.