hold me closer subway dancer

A young man got on the 4 train this morning at Wall Street. He was Latino, small, not unattractive but feminine in the face, wearing mid-calf length olive cargo shorts, Nike skate shoes, a blueberry-colored t-shirt with angel wings screened on the back and front, a "Bahamas" keychain clipped to a belt loop, a gold bracelet, a high school class ring ("LOWELL" in red letters), curly hair, two days of beard, oversized mirror sunglasses, and bright blue buds in his ears. I couldn't hear what he was listening to but he loved it - he was mouthing the words expressionistically, and dancing around with those shades on in that way that on days I'm feeling less generous makes me wonder whether a person is actually being moved by the music or by some idea of how a person being moved by music should move - but anyway, today was not one of those days, and I did not doubt this boy on the 4 train.

Around Park Place he pulled out a tablet notebook and started tapping on the screen even as he kept on dancing. I caught glimpses of it: first he was fiddling with his music library, then he opened an invitation to a "Nu Phi Delta Beta Alpha Class BBQ for Kids that Has Cancer," and finally settled on a draft of a letter that he was apparently sending to potential donors for the charity event. It was communicative but probably could have suffered a little editing. I read the letter as best I could, and learned his name, his community college, his enterprise, his morning's work.

I didn't feel bad looking, because what kind of expectation of privacy do you have when you're conducting your business conspicuously in the middle of a train car? The girl sitting next to me probably didn't expect that I would read along as she typed "Dont forget u said u would ask ur friend about fixing the Blackberry screen" on a fuschia phone that flipped open like a butterfly knife, or something, and the woman sitting across from me probably did not need me to scrutinize her soft body and straightened hair, but snoops being who they are, I snooped, and I felt oddly happy this morning doing so. Sometimes you look around on the subway and want to heave - why do those dodging lights make people look so drawn?! - but sometimes you look around and see a fool dancing and you catch his eye and the corners of both of your mouths lift up for a split second before you walk in opposite directions at 42nd Street.

Usually its right in moments of gooey sentimentality that the city takes a hatpin to the thin balloon that is my heart. . . all it would take would be the slightest body check en route to the turnstile, a splash of shitwater from a truck tire, a Midwestern family holding hands moving abreast in slow motion down Fifth Avenue, the gasp of disgust ("Oh!") from the next stall over when you involuntarily discharge fragrant gasses, etc. (Hypotheticals, people.) But that didn't happen today. Instead, Conway Twitty came on my headphones and instructed me about authenticity:

So you came from New York city and you want to see the sights
You've heard all about those cowboys and those crazy Texas nights
I see you've got your eye on something leaning on the bar
But the toughest ride he's ever had was in his foreign car

So don't call him a cowboy until you've seen him ride
Cause a Stetson hat and those fancy boots don't tell ya what's inside
No, and if he ain't good in the saddle Lord you won't be satisfied
So don't call him a cowboy until you've seen him ride

He's the Hollywood idea of the wild and wooly west
In his French designer blue jeans and his custom tailored vest
You think he's the real thing but I think you oughta know
He can't even make it through a one night rodeo

This is a mean-spirited song, but I chose the corollary meaning, not the direct one; not that one should judge people as phonies, but that one should withhold judgment because it's hard to tell what a person is really like from his appearance. Books having interchangeable slip-on covers, etc., stuff you all already know but that sounds new to me when Conway Twitty tells me so. Then New Order came on, followed by "Another One Bites the Dust," and I thought, "Yes, yes, c'est moi! I do walk wearily down the street!" while bouncing up to my visitor's office to start my work day.

All to say that I am in a good mood today, and I attribute that to love, in friendships and partnerships, which I appreciate not enough when I have it and mourn too keenly when I self-sabotage it, except in those rare moments I am awake to it, and the people on the subway begin to seem beautiful.

Never mind me, I am only a menopausal old cow lowing in the pasture. Here is Conway Twitty (nsfw, some PG-13 rated photos on this Youtube clip):