By: Gabriela Yareliz
I saw her sitting on a bench on the train platform in what looked like shredded pajamas. She sat there with a satin looking shower cap on her head, surrounded by clumps of mashed potatoes. At least five clumps. She sat there smiling to no one in particular.
The people on the platform and later trapped in close proximity in the train car were like a collection of misfits or forgotten toys pieced together. Like when a mini Barbie’s head pops off and you stick another doll’s head on it.
So many perfumes dancing together. Body odor. Some people wealthy and others not. People with friends, gesturing wildly with their hands to show off their jewelry. The metal clinking together. Some flirting, with a push of a hair strand behind the ear. One man is crying out like he is being hurt by some invisible force. He is mostly ignored. We make eye contact.
A small Hispanic woman starts mumbling an unintelligible (in any language) garble offering candies, one can only assume. She sounds like a machine. Repeating a senseless noise over and over again. No pause. She wears a tight tank top with tiny roses. A timeless pattern that looks like it could be from now or 1997. A tall black man holds his watch up to his face with a giant slightly psychopathic grin. He just holds up his wrist for twenty minutes straight. The smile never breaks.
A guy who definitely works in finance avoids eye contact and tries to move away from the short haired woman sitting very close to him reading a book about Bob Dylan that is a neon yellow and looks about 20 pages long. Suddenly, it smells like pot. I am annoyed.
One woman’s unnatural wig is hanging by a thread. An elderly man is texting on his 2001 flip phone.
Everyone so different. A different world. All of us in this capsule barreling through the tunnel just trying to make it to our destination. Everyone just trying to make it home.
GABRIELA YARELIZ 