Thursday, January 02, 2003

She was the classic package,

She was the classic package, wholesome and unsullied - a modest profile, slim figure, sober business attire and self-possessed attitude.  I’d have been petrified ever to speak to her.  It’s not that she was exceptionally beautiful, she just seemed so sure of herself, and I would have felt very uncomfortable insinuating myself into whatever well-structured world she inhabited.  As it happened, I was sitting on a bench facing forward and next to me was another bench facing into the train car (yes, another transit story, this was BART in Oakland); she approached a seat on the inward-facing bench.  I’d be able to see what she was reading, how she managed the tiny activities that occupy travellers on their various travels.  She demurely planted her butt on the cushioned seat and pulled a bulky paperback from her bag.  My heart clenched to see that she was reading the Rules of Evidence that would govern a law school competition of some kind.  I’ve been there, my garrulous persona was urging me to commiserate.  Yeah, you’ve been there and it sucked, so don’t distract or irritate her; just because you endured this kind of drek doesn’t mean you’re entitled to distract and retard others attempting the same feat.  Let her study.  So, as (almost) always, I shielded my gaze and clamped my jaw. 

The train was about to start moving when he leapt between the doors as they closed.  He was slightly less than average height, not well-built, with a belly that, by its roundness, called attention to his lack of musculature.  His sport coat was not in good condition and didn’t fit him terribly well.  His pants were unpressed, unprepossessing.  His shoes - scuffed leather oxfords in guttermud brown - looked even worse next to the pert business pumps strapped to her soles.  She made him look like a dumpster diver.  There were plenty of open seats but I could tell he’d want to sit next to her, especially when I saw him see what she was reading.  He settled in at my knees with a congenial nod to her and opened a leatherette document sleeve that was frayed and shiny with use, pulled out a newsletter: “Tax Practitioner Monthly,” or something of similar ilk.  With quiet self-importance, he began to read his turgid periodical (and I don’t mean turgid in the good way).  His fingers slid back and forth under the line he was reading, pushing his eyes to move faster.  His fingers moved so fast that it looked like he was petting his newsletter, fondling it with thin pink fingers.  He’d stick with one line, his fingers running back and forth under it four or five times before he had sufficiently read it, and then he’d move to the next one.  His hand moved much more quickly than he was reading.  As he slowly worked his way through the material he’d brought with him, he occasionally glanced to the woman next to him to see if she had noticed what he was reading, that he was a potential mentor for her, that they were siblings in the law and he could shelter her and foster her budding skills and intuition with avuncular wisdom and compassion… she kept her eyes down, thoughtful, undistracted.  She left the train first, putting her book back in her bag and rising with cool cosmopolitan calm at a transfer station.  He watched her leave; she did not turn her gaze on him as she exited the car.  He was left sitting alone, put his newsletter away with sighs and officious folding, and finally left his seat at the last appropriate moment with a wistful glance back over his shoulder.  I could smell unfulfilled hopes and realized frustrations in the air eddying behind him.  Or maybe that was just West Oakland.