By: Gabriela Yareliz
Stories are everywhere. There are layers and layers of them that we have to chew through. In some places, they are easy to see. In others, you have to work a bit harder. You have to wait a bit longer. It’s like chewing through those gummy bears that are (I swear) made of rubber. Some stories take longer to come apart. Sometimes, they leave you full, and other times, they leave you empty and buzzing like an afternoon crash followed by caffeine jitters.
No matter where you are, the stories will bubble to the surface if you are patient. If you keep scratching like a matcha whisk, the bubbles will rise.
I was standing there gripping the poll, all sorts of tired. I knew I had adjusted something on my boot, and I was reminding myself to not touch my face after that. I desperately needed to wash my hands. Underground on a crowded train, that opportunity doesn’t exist. I was reminding myself because I was unfocused and tired. Not just tired, but almost-sticks-a-flosser-pick-in-my-ear-thinking-it’s-a-Q-tip tired. I feel the clasp on my skirt digging into my side. Am I breathing? I wonder. I decide that I am breathing.
Finally, a seat opens up. I sit down and look at the bench across the way. There is a man, a strong man who looks like he works as a contractor or something. He is wearing a denim jacket with an American flag stitched to the left arm sleeve. He glances up at me from whatever he is making. He is knitting. I notice he is wearing a thick knit sweater. The man probably knit that too, I think. He has big green eyes and curly hair. His eyes fall back to his knitting needles. I stare because I have never seen this before. Suddenly, the wrong doors to the train car open. I quickly turn to see who is subway surfing while we are speeding down the underground tunnel. I expect to see youths with a death wish. A tall man with white hair and a thick leather jacket walks by. He has definitely killed someone, I think to myself. He walks down the middle of the subway car glancing at all of us, like he is studying us. He only sways to move past the polls in the middle of the car. He never stops. He keeps walking. Onto the next car. We exhale.
“Good evening,” a black man in a hat croons to us via microphone. He sets down his speaker. “You don’t have to give me money, just a smile,” he says. I feel the collective cringe of the car as we wait to see what this performance will be like. “Stay blessed,” he says reminding me of that one New Girl episode.
He starts singing, and he is incredibly good. The man should have a record deal. An elderly Russian lady looks up from a crossword and starts swaying and smiling at the music from her seat. A man sits next to me in a gray coat and continues to slide off of the blue seat. Eventually, he splats his hands on both sides of him as stops from the sliding. He holds himself up, weirdly, while trying to hide he is doing so. His feet touch the ground, so I am not exactly sure what is going on with this sliding man. He is probably on drugs.
A young couple stands near the door holding pale wooden chairs. They look around embarassed, as if they are taking up too much space. It’s rush hour. They are. Most of us ignore them. An asian girl grips a large poster board that shrieks school project. The music stops, and the singer moves his speaker. A woman flutters her hands around to dry the nail polish she just applied. It’s not her color. An older Chinese woman is smacking a younger woman and yelling at her loudly in Chinese. We assume that is her daughter, crying. “What the f*** was that?” a middle eastern man says brushing past them in his puffy coat, shaking his head. The man next to me is gripping the seat like his life depends on it.
When you look closely, you can see things like the glance of contempt, the pursing of the lips, the word mumbled under the breath, the giggle in the inappropriate place. The stories around us require us to be awake to the details. Life requires us to be awake. When we are, we notice the stories everywhere. Faces and faces come bubbling up to the surface. Little mysteries expand and pop when the time is right.
Stay blessed.
GABRIELA YARELIZ 