Wandering New York

When you’re moving in transit, all that you have are your thoughts.

             Darting eyes litter the streets as lines form in either direction on the sidewalks. Headphones play and glances are picked up and put down more quickly than it takes for a full opinion to be formed. Look right, there’s a twentysomething with a patchy red beard, tuning out the world with his ear buds. Look left, there’s a hotdog cart, gone in the time it takes to glance at the price, replaced by a baby in a stroller, a highfalutin businessman, a beauty, a sob story, an unexpected friend. And then it’s on to the next block, on to the next set of sights and sounds, on to the next bunch of peripheral people with courteous commuter smiles.

All the while, my mind is wandering, racing, trying to keep up with it all:

‘Didn’t ask for that extended eye contact’          

‘Come on slow walkers’

‘Cute baby’         

‘I wonder how old they are’

‘Do I look that young?’

‘Cool long trail shirt’

‘Shit, almost tripped there’

‘My lucky day, another walk sign’

               I’ve arrived, and I join the masses, delving into the depths of the station. Teller, Ticket, and Human Traffic: typical tribulations. The people who’ve got plenty of time are rushing; the people who are rushing are sprinting.  There are a slew of undecipherable ramblings heard overhead but no one really reacts. Until the track number is posted—then, It’s a human zoo. Flocking figures fixate on the gate. The ten minutes allotted for boarding never seems like enough time, everyone shares a common goal but no one seems to notice anyone else.

‘Excuse me, pardon me’

‘Pardon me, excuse me’

‘After you’

‘After me?’

‘Actually, after the man in the wheelchair’

             The talking is limited as everyone claims his or her seat. Strangers accompany friends, as friends split up to accommodate strangers. Slipping into a seat is unsettling but once you’ve sat, your satisfied. One by one, the headphones go in and the computers come out, books open and eyes close.

It’s the first leg, the last leg and the middle of a journey: to each, their own.

And at the end of the day, when the train stops at your station, 

and you lift your suitcase from the overhead compartment or your backpack from your lap, 

allow the man talking on the phone cut you off or maybe find the gumption to cut him off instead, descend the stairs and make your way off of the platform, 

perhaps smile at your mom in her minivan, 

maybe slip the key into the ignition of your Audi 

or even just begin the walk, 

you’ve made it—you’re going home. 
2011