The Trolley Song
This hot summer Saturday night in Manhattan is inhaled with difficulty. The black air is heavy and dense as chocolate cake. C and I must chew through it to get out of the stifling lobby of our building and into the street where we fall in step with the remnant who have not arranged for a weekend with their toes in the ocean.
The scent of urine, ominous in the stairwell of the subway, jumps you as you descend, and you regret not taking a cab.
The platform has become a humidor of mechanical fumes and human exhalation mixed with sweat. We step through a damp and growing crowd waiting for the less frequently running cars of midnight. We weave through the benches, signs and debris on our way to the farthest point so that we might board the lead car and look through the scratchy glass of the front door as it charges through the tunnel.
We pass a man whose eyes lock onto mine for longer than anonymity allows. He is short, lean, dark and handsome. His closely cropped black hair gleams in the yellowish light. His skin is smooth over the pleasant angles of his face. Sub-equatorial, but I could not guess the continent or island. One shoulder rests against a beam and the sharply defined muscles of his arms arch easily into the pockets of his low rise jeans just below a wide white belt featuring a huge oval silver buckle inscribed with the “A/X” logo of an Armani outlet. A stretchy sleeveless top in a silver/grey/white camouflage pattern is taut over his broad chest and narrow waist. This quirky combination is completed by unnaturally large black boots rooted a yard from each other.
We do not stop, but I am aware of his eyes as they follow me through the obstruction of other faces and moving bodies. I surrender to his attention by turning my head to keep the contact revived past each break until a long stairwell intervenes, and cuts him away from us as we continue on to the end of the platform.
When the train arrives, we are glad to see that the front door is of the variety that will afford us a clear view of the track ahead. We are the first to enter, and secure our position by the window as the car fills behind us.
As the train rumbles through the darkness, my mind is still considering a stranger trapped in a hot city who had selected me for some form of respite that I have denied him. What set of follow-up eyes would by now have given in to him back on that platform on 59th Street? I am going downtown. We are going downtown. Besides, I am not the romantic ready-boy of thirty years ago. I am the Judy she would have finally become had she lived. Wiser, and not needing to think that it is “grand just to stand with his hand holding mine, till the end of the line”. The older Judy and I know that the best part, when it comes your way, is the glance of desire. That is the honorific that deserves a heartfelt thank-you. To go the further distance into the sweaty and grunting strife of stranger-sex can only be a disappointment. Think of the game of Bridge. The bidding is the thrill. The playing out of one’s hand is insignificant.
The train stops at 14th Street, and when we turn to exit, I am surprised to see that the stranger in question has been in our car all the while and has positioned himself by the doors so that I will have to walk directly in front of him. Close enough to touch. He continues to stare into my eyes as I approach.
The scent of urine, ominous in the stairwell of the subway, jumps you as you descend, and you regret not taking a cab.
The platform has become a humidor of mechanical fumes and human exhalation mixed with sweat. We step through a damp and growing crowd waiting for the less frequently running cars of midnight. We weave through the benches, signs and debris on our way to the farthest point so that we might board the lead car and look through the scratchy glass of the front door as it charges through the tunnel.
We pass a man whose eyes lock onto mine for longer than anonymity allows. He is short, lean, dark and handsome. His closely cropped black hair gleams in the yellowish light. His skin is smooth over the pleasant angles of his face. Sub-equatorial, but I could not guess the continent or island. One shoulder rests against a beam and the sharply defined muscles of his arms arch easily into the pockets of his low rise jeans just below a wide white belt featuring a huge oval silver buckle inscribed with the “A/X” logo of an Armani outlet. A stretchy sleeveless top in a silver/grey/white camouflage pattern is taut over his broad chest and narrow waist. This quirky combination is completed by unnaturally large black boots rooted a yard from each other.
We do not stop, but I am aware of his eyes as they follow me through the obstruction of other faces and moving bodies. I surrender to his attention by turning my head to keep the contact revived past each break until a long stairwell intervenes, and cuts him away from us as we continue on to the end of the platform.
When the train arrives, we are glad to see that the front door is of the variety that will afford us a clear view of the track ahead. We are the first to enter, and secure our position by the window as the car fills behind us.
As the train rumbles through the darkness, my mind is still considering a stranger trapped in a hot city who had selected me for some form of respite that I have denied him. What set of follow-up eyes would by now have given in to him back on that platform on 59th Street? I am going downtown. We are going downtown. Besides, I am not the romantic ready-boy of thirty years ago. I am the Judy she would have finally become had she lived. Wiser, and not needing to think that it is “grand just to stand with his hand holding mine, till the end of the line”. The older Judy and I know that the best part, when it comes your way, is the glance of desire. That is the honorific that deserves a heartfelt thank-you. To go the further distance into the sweaty and grunting strife of stranger-sex can only be a disappointment. Think of the game of Bridge. The bidding is the thrill. The playing out of one’s hand is insignificant.
The train stops at 14th Street, and when we turn to exit, I am surprised to see that the stranger in question has been in our car all the while and has positioned himself by the doors so that I will have to walk directly in front of him. Close enough to touch. He continues to stare into my eyes as I approach.
posted by Father Tony of the Farmboyz at 7:42 PM
4 Comments:
Preach on, Jesse!
All I want is to be wanted.
It's all downhill from there.
Bless you, you're right!
At this point in my life, significant eye contact is really all I need. And my boyfriend. Random sex in itself can be and often is messy and complicated.
As an added bonus, you can carry their image with you like a little shrine to imagined lust for years, and you'll never have to actually hear them ask you what you think of Kylie's new single.
The Armani Exchange logo is Manhattan-speak for, "I am from Brazil!"
I get upset every day that I come here and there's no new post...you're just making matters worse...
And whatever happened with the nerd undergarment swap?
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