Homewords Bound
Today's road home went roundabout then sideways then well, turned the corner and home again. Made some fettuccine. And a hazelnut latte. Yeehaw.
Took the subway. It was raining, a mad searing rain. Rain popping off the sidewalk like machine gun fire rattling. Rain pouring down through the pavement cracks onto the train tracks – like leaky faucets scattered through the underground. Rain dripping over miserable pedestrians and coating their drenched coats with a slick layer of Gotham's finest grime.
Most people on the subway C line heading towards Brooklyn are either black, Latino or black/Latino. I saw a woman sitting erect reading a short paperback in a red coat. She was pretty in a heavyset way. Next to her, mouth half-grinning and half- opened was a man sleeping in a crumpled white shirt and print tie with purple quarter-notes drooped askew to the right of his gut like a Gaudi chimney blowing out Charlie Parker raindrop melodies. What desolate angels they were, brooding dark angels suffering! I couldn't help but feel strongly empathetic towards these two – their dreary day, heavy life, and bleak outlook that was all the more bleak because it was so optimistically simple – what were their struggles? I couldn't help but think that there was a carbon copy or dopplelganger couple elsewhere that was white, probably sitting erect or dozing in their town car en route to an Upper East Side home. The uptown couple would wear the same kind of outfits except on them, it would look different: crisper and sharper (i.e. dark jacket and monchrome tie – probably hardcover); they wore those clothes the way they were meant to be worn. The jacket, pants, shirt, blouse, dress, etc. would look right. Of course, fashionable things were made for the white physique, advertised on white models and imprinted into a white culture....
The buckling train stopped at Clinton-Washington, as forlorn shapes trudged out of the gaping neon-lit mouth. The rain blew sideways, I can see it streaking sideways in the iodine street lights.
I decided to take the bus home. Got lost among the puddles of Fort Greene, then waited miserably for the No. 38 bus. Had a smoke and called Taysa and felt alone. The wetness somehow found ways to penetrate my umbrella. Squished and squeaked onto the crowded bus, its fogged windows framed by lined faces with bright dark eyes, like pools of gleaming ink. Got off at J street and waited among saints and mothers for the No. 61 bus under the indigo sign of a donut shop. Saw blissful darkness for half an hour before getting off at my stop.
Joe, my doorman, died yesterday night of a heart attack. He was 50. He was always chastising and reminding me to lock my moped up, to cover it in case of the mischievous neighborhood kids – one time he whooped like a kid when I handed him the keys to have a test drive – he barely made it to the end of the block; Joe always had a smoke while I had a smoke so we can talk and complain about the rising rents in Williamsburg. Then he'd proceed to turn up the volume on his little radio, singing along with Cher. Sleep well.