He’s walking right to me. He walks with the springy gait and stiff shoulders of a resident gym rat, huge negative space between his bowed thighs and his arms sit well away from his torso. The subway platform isn’t crowded at this time of day but he’s not stopping at any of the available spaces. Why does he keep walking toward me? I am skilled at not making eye contact and yet he takes position on the subway pillar directly facing me, facing away from the direction the train will come. He’s sweating profusely, mopping his neck and brow with recycled paper napkins and his breathing is Vaderian. I wonder if he’s having a reaction to steroids. I’ve cocked my head to demonstrate that I’m looking down the track, acting as sentry for the train. I’m not in the mood to navigate the crazies today. He reaches into his gym bag and pulls out a Ken Follett paperback. He cracks it open very near the end and un-dogears the page. And then he begins to softly and animatedly read out loud, wrapping up the mystery and eagerly sharing the thrill of it all.
8 min April 3, 2014 on the F train, Queens
Source prompt: paperback, E train platform, West 4th St
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