One man is talking to another:
“I had this incredible dream last night where I was lost. I was on this bizarre bus that dropped me off at the wrong stop. So I’m walking around, trying to get back to Stratford through these dark winding roads, and here’s the key–“
The other man puts up a digit, pulls out his cell phone and answers a call.
* * * * * *
He’s absolutely thrilled to be here. His feet, in his baby Nike sneakers, are dangling inches above the floor of the train, and kicking erratically, spastically. The expressions from his small mouth rapidly shift in a cycle of wild grins, playful sounds, mischievous smirks and blank, observant interest in all that’s around him.
His arm shoots up—he’s noticed his reflection in the glass across from him and has found a new playmate. A young blond woman in the other row can’t stop shooting him wide smiles. Shy but voracious, he thwarts her gaze by popping his head in and out of a crook in his mama’s arm.
He often peeks down the car, as he can’t get enough of the variety of faces, actions and mysterious comings and goings of all the people. They come from so many different environments of outdoor and underground platforms, holding all sorts of packages and wearing so much on their faces and huge hulking bodies. They are part of a seething rapid-fire universe that is a far off goal to his energy and interest, if not a match for it.
His mother is too tired for it, though, and she hands him a cell phone. Almost immediately, his feral energy becomes focus and minimized like a laser beam. His legs kick occasionally, and the wild monkey sounds pop up here and there, but otherwise he has become complacent. He is fooled into satisfaction for the rest of the ride and tied into a world the size of his tiny palm. He has conceded.
