Subway Vanity

by Elizabeth Klemmer

     I am on the 6 train ready to bolt at 59th street as if delivering a human heart for transplant.  I stare at my shoes because facing my reflection is depressing.  I blame the lighting and defective window glass for the ruthless playback of my face.  Of course, I could just turn around but then I would be face to face with the heavily breathing creature kicking my heels.  I would rather subject him to a view of my back side, than subject myself to view of his front side.

     I run to catch the R train and successfully grab a pre-molded orange seat.  An active toddler accompanied by two women sits next to me.  Her mother, who is all angles and bones, starts to help her take off her coat and, in the process, whacks me repeatedly.  I take a one cheek position and lean in the opposite direction.  The second woman, who had the  forethought to bring happy hour with her in a brown paper bag, starts to yell at me.  "What's your problem? Can't you see that the child needs to take her coat off?"  I adopt an "ignore it and it will go away" attitude.  She continues, "Sheesh!  Some people ain't got no patience."  It will not go away.  I give her the hand as if to say, "It's okay. I get it."  "Don't you be telling me to shut up!"  Apparently, my hand is bi-lingual and I have
unknowingly thrown down the gauntlet.  People are now staring and waiting for my next move.  I take the high road and move down the car to the door.  She goes on undeterred. "That's right!  Move your skinny white ass right outta here, bitch!"  I am not the least bit insulted.  Quite the contrary, I'm thrilled that she thinks my backside is small.  I face the door and stare at my shoes, only now I'm smiling.
 

Elizabeth Klemmer is a freelance writer based in New York City.