Tracks Of My Tears
It's early afternoon and it's rainy and dreary. I'm on the Brooklyn bound A. The subway car I'm sitting in is moderately full. I'm doing my best scowl to hide the fact that I'm feeling mighty low. I see this young man, a strap-hanger, in a light-colored, wool suit. By the creases behind his knees, this suit, although clean, has been on the hangar for a while. Manufacturers tag is still sewn on the sleeve. OK. Kinda ghetto, I'm thinking. His shoes are black Timberlands. That really didn't go with the look. Short hair, slightly scruffy. He didn't look like he was used to wearing suits. It seemed like that suit floated over him without actually touching him anywhere. He looked tired. The next time I look at him, he's standing there bawling silently. Face screwed up and locked, mouth slightly open, breath suspended, cheeks wet with tears, it just couldn't be contained any longer. I felt so moved; I wanted to go up to him and tell him that what ever it was, that he'd get through it, and it will eventually work out ok. But I can't do that. I didn't do anything. I felt overwhelmingly under-qualified to lay a line of crap like that on a total stranger, and I also felt that if I did, I might end up doing a two-part harmony with him. A regular Laurel and Hardy act on the subway, and not even for spare change. I turned my gaze away. At the next peek I dared to steal, he had shut off the waterworks. Like it never happened. He just looked drained. Stunned. Dazed. By the time I got off the train, he claimed the seat he was standing in front of. We were facing each other now. I was on the platform, he was seated along the opposite wall of the car, facing me. His eyes stared at things that were worlds away from where his body was.