In My Write Mind

[originally posted January 2005]

The train’s hull had all the ambience of a public library, replete with dingy lights and dazed denizens. The graffiti-ravaged car was no different than any other morning. Scads of trash highlighted the brick-colored floors. The same billboards lined the marquees. The same looks of indifference were on half of the crowd’s faces as their minds were undoubtedly intent on what awaited them at work; the other half most likely thinking of weekend plans or overdue bills or hell, maybe even library cards.

The point is, as it always seems to be on the New York City subway system: it was just one of those days.

Except it wasn’t.

Because today, there she was. Sitting there. Right in front of me. Perfectly imperfect. On her way into her day. Holding her thoughts close and her bag even closer. For all accounts and purposes, a native New Yorker. She caught my eye, not only for her sexuality, but for her simplicity as well. She was perfectly plain. And I was taken in. She is possibly who the writer had in mind when he penned Just Another Girl on the IRT. Maybe.

She sat there, unadulterated, unassuming and unaware that I was sizing her up, caught up in her aura. She had no clue I was invading her space; no clue that her presence during an otherwise blah trip had me tripping.

I kept trying to put my finger on what had me staring, on what had my mind so entranced. What could it be?

Was it her blue jeans that clung to her body like a scared toddler to a parents’ neck?

Was it those sexy Timberland boots that adorned her feet, the very ones that had enough traces of the past week’s snow to ensure that if she’d committed a crime, Gary Sinise and his crew could end that particular CSI episode early?

It could’ve been her jacket, a fire engine red, which halfway hid her pink sweat shirt, the combination reflecting awkwardly off of the fluorescents and causing many a passenger to do a bleary-eyed double take as if the ensemble was an assault on their senses.

Not mine, though. See, I was tripping hard.

Her skin? A winter pale, yet still with a glow that harkened brighter days–brighter than the wintry ones the northeast had suffered through for the past several months. She was a sista, no doubt. Maybe mixed, not sure.

Her complexion was light, with high cheek bones and thin lips rounding out her facial structure. No makeup. A scar on her right cheek made all who looked try to mentally deconstruct its origin, empathetically retrace her steps to the scene of the crime.

Her hair–a dark brown with honey streaks–was organized confusion, yet somehow complemented her hue.

Her eyes? Closed. Tightly. Knocked da fugg out. Was she dreaming of me like I was innocently fantasizing about her? Could she know that my eyes were on her even while hers were closed, that I wanted to come and talk to her like a Jodeci song?

Were her eyes hiding from an early morning mutual attraction, thus blocking our seemingly one-sided fantasy future? Did she get this all the time from random men while riding the NYC MTA? Why did seeing this young lady conjure up such questions? Why did I care?

I was straight tripping, to be sure.

Her head nodded furiously with each turn of the train, each jerk and pull, with her at the mercy of the frazzled conductor, resembling a morena marionette in performance mode. As her head danced the jig of slumber, the shopping bag she once clutched began to slide off of her lap, moving toward the ground with all the skill and determination of a stripper sliding down a pole.

I had to ask again …why was I mesmerized by this woman? What was it about her? Honestly, to this day I just don’t know. Her stop came. She arose suddenly, frantically exiting the train, only to come back for her bag.

And then she was gone … unlike my memory of her, which still remains to this day. Maybe I’ll see her again, but probably not. Maybe one day I’ll figure out what it was about her that “made me look” like a Nas song.

Personally, I’m blaming it on the fluorescent lighting. And the lack of a newspaper to occupy my eyes and mind.

Blaming it on what I lacked that morning will hopefully allow me to stop thinking about her, will allow me to get off the train and on with my day.

Help me stop tripping on the stares.