The New York City train system is the Great Equalizer - the way it unbiasedly puts every class together, forces them to stand together and breathe the same air. There's no physical class boundaries or borders; the volume at which a group speaks to one another or the odor, nearly palatable, coming off of a singluar body is all that divides passengers. These borders ebb and flow and do not possess the character to judge and dismiss some passengers from its fold and others to engulf. Everyone is subjected, everyone must take notice, no one is spared based on who they are wearing, or who they are begging. The music blaring from one set of headphones, the numbed sipping out of a paper cup of coffee, the sweep of a turning book page and the click of acrylic nails on a glass screen all stick out against the aggressive constant steel hum of the train tracks, and the unintelligable operator announcements between the long stretch between 125th and 59th.
He holds a Timex and a blackberry and an iPod, legs crossed; subtle branded socks peek from the well tailored cuff at his ankle. He's next to a man with shaved side dreadlocks who is in deep conversation with himself, informing the entire car to his inability to hold and erection when staying at his mother's house. Neither man notices the other. The only unjaded attention span on the train is the wide eyed child, whose mother is desperately trying to get to take a seat, and pretend she doesn't hear. There's no off button. There's no door to close with intention. There's only the open space between the faces, none of which look towards one another, all absorbed in their chosen distractions.
SHOWTIME.
Oh, fuck me.
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