“Not on trial, but being judged as a villain to Mr. Astor”, the headline read. I find it a piece of interest, a story about a descendant of John Jacob Astor. Astor was arguably the first billionaire of New York City, a real estate mogul who famously regretted on his deathbed “not buying up every square inch of Manhattan”.
However, it’s not my newspaper. It belongs to the woman sitting next to me. She feverishly munches on the Pringles she purchased here on the 42nd street platform. She rhythmically sweeps crumbs off the paper, which she is also reading. I make my way to the sensational 3rd paragraph, when her pink horn-rimmed glasses poke their way into my vicinity, her lashy eyes and face of poor complexion turning towards MY notebook. She wants to know what I’M reading, what’s part of MY personal existence here on this platform.
I understand her obtuse existential attack and turn my head back. The train comes and we board, sitting apart from each other.
Subway Non-Fiction 
These stories are truly wonderful. Have you ever submitted them to the New Yorker?
They are like those stories.
Comment by Gramma — December 31, 2009 @ 8:28 pm |