Late night, at a glance

“I bet you won’t go to sleep right away”

“Nope” They laugh.

“I’m gonna watch TV for a while” his Jamaican accent is thick for Church Avenue.

“I’m probably gonna do the same thing” His voice is gruff. Definitely gruff. “I hope my bed is dry” Another gruff man gets up to leave and he puts out his fist, straight forward and parallel to the ground so if he opened it and there was change inside it would clatter on the subway floor. Another fist taps it.

“Actually I’m going to get McDonalds with my girlfriend” the younger man says.

 

“How much do you get?” The older man says to the younger man.

“Eight”

“You could probably get ten”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Do you get direct deposit? Retirement benefits?”

“Naw. I don’t get none of that stuff”

“Our Union sets all that up. You work with a Union?”

“No”

“Yeah the Union pays for all that stuff. If you have to get your license renewed the Union pays for that stuff” He glances at his watch “I’m never gonna make it. I’m gonna get home at one again…”

“This is my stop”
“Yeah?”

“This is my stop”

The train slows and stops. The doors open.

“Isn’t this your stop?”

“Yeah, but I’m going to get off at the next stop. I’m going to go to my girlfriend’s house”

The next stop comes. The older man puts out his fist again.

“I don’t know about that” The younger man says, and shakes his hand. In the other he holds a bag printed with the letters R.A.G.

“You’re gonna call me tomorrow?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow”

“Oh, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I don’t know about that”

Guest Writer: Moses Gates

It had been one of those awful days.   I can’t remember the specifics now, but I remember the rotten feeling in my gut.    Life, job, the city, everything had been getting me down.   I was late to some kind of appointment I think – one more thing that had gone wrong.  The subway was crowded,it was a long ride and I knew I wouldn’t get a seat.   I leaned against the door and tried to block out the world. 

But the world jabbed its way in.  I heard a voice – someone singing a song I didn’t know.   I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t really want to.  I was annoyed, and just not in the mood to try and ignore another subway performer and hope they didn’t bump into me while walking down the aisle asking for donations.   Why was I here in this city?   Why wasn’t I living somewhere where a car and a decent apartment weren’t reserved for people with incomes well into the six figures?   Why was I here on a noisy, dirty, two-dollar ride trying to ignore another crazy person invading the personal bubble I had so painstakingly crafted for myself just for times like these?   

Then a dozen more voices joined the first and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.   

They were some kind of Church, or maybe high school choir practicing.   And they were really, really good.   The song turned out to be “He Knows My Name” – a gospel song whose lyrics seem to feature a really creepy stalker Jesus (the first two lines of the chorus are “he knows my name, he knows my every move).”   I’ve downloaded different version of the song, but none have meant anything to me – by itself the song is kind of saccharine.  It was the people, and the moment.

Even though I was late, I left the train one stop after I should have, just so I could listen to the last verse.   I knew in my head that the problems had not gone away, but somehow everything was OK now.   I thought it appropriate that the song was a gospel.   I’ve never been religious, but I’ve always had faith in the city.   And just like how a priest looks for signs of faith when he has doubts, the city has always had a way of restoring my faith when I felt like it was being tested.   Nowhere else could I have had that moment – especially not driving along the highway in some town with cheap parking and people who don’t sing in public.

(Also brown)

Her shoes are moccasins; brown and white with cows hide patterns. No socks. Her pants are mocha chocolate crushed velvet, her parka the same color of her gloves, brown. Her well-manicured nails hang delicately from the finger holes, mid-knuckle up.

            Her face has that familiar heavy touch to it, the one that comes with money and age. Taught past the cheekbones, inflamed auburn lips, and a broadened upper lip below a possibly natural nose. Lines just barely exist within the crevices of her cheek. Much of it is hidden behind over-sized Chanel glasses (also brown).

            She is taking a picture of this face with her camera phone. Slowly and thoughtfully, she turns the phone around and extends her arm. She frames it quite right, modeling plainly with only the slightest pouting of her lips. She swivels the phone back around leisurely, without a moments haste.

            And she examines herself. She takes in the full picture in that sub-conscious split-second before eagle eying particular features. She lifts her glasses just above the eyelash for an unmolested view. It is unclear whether she is discriminating, but she lingers long enough to have made certain age-old criticisms. She must be satisfied to a certain extent, because she puts away her momentary mirror and fails to produce a compact or do anything to her face. Perhaps she has done enough already.