Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Wednesday Morning Ride
Oy. Wednesday. Since I got Monday off, this week is only one day long for me so far, and already it feels like a kidneystone with waterwings bumping its clumsy way down the urethra that is my life. It’s not like anything has gone wrong, but everything is happening all at once and it all involves me, my work is piling up and my deadlines are impending, and people are requiring my presence at multiple meetings where I’m expected to make presentations, often simultaneously. No, really. With all this under my belt from Tuesday, the only thing I can think to post on this fine Wednesday morning is the story of last Wednesday morning, which provided me with an object lesson in how not to start my Wednesday.
It’s the morning bus, and people are wearing their morning faces - not drained and deflated like they are at 6 or 6:30 in the evening, but (if in the company of a friend or coworker) emphatically cheerful and aggressively co-engaged, or (if, like most of us, alone) stonefaced and stoic, marshalling the strength to face another Wednesday, steeling ourselves for the demands of the desk. I’ve been standing, shuffling back and forth with the crowd as seats empty and re-fill from stop to stop, until, as we approach the heart of downtown, a spot opens near me where I can sit, so I sit and let the music in my ears carry me a little further forward, let the funky bassline amplify my energy....
I glance around periodically but don’t notice her through the crowd till we’re all the way past Union Square and the mob has substantially thinned out. She’s striking, that’s why I notice her in the first place - tall and slender, with controlled chaotic curls of auburn hair, like Kate Hepburn in Mary of Scotland. High cheekbones, too, and large cold eyes; her clear pale skin sets off full lips that express no emotion at all. Her overcoat is off the rack, but suits her well; her earrings are discrete and tasteful. She looks very serious, smart, almost severe. She wears stylish boots, well-shined. It is easy to keep her in view, so I watch her discreetly.
As I idly wonder about her age and destination, a thought visibly enters her mind. Her brow furrows just a little and she pulls a capacious knapsack out from beneath her seat. She efficiently arranges it in her lap and unzips a front pocket, shuffles through it briefly - then, more thoroughly. She pulls out from it a thick wallet, looks through it, puts it in her lap under the bag, unzips another pocket of the bag and methodically investigates its contents as well.
She stops for a moment and slows herself down, smoothes her brow, lets her head drop back on her neck, and then looks back into the bag again, re-searching the two zip pockets quickly but with increasing intensity. Her shoulders rise and fall with a deep sigh. She zips opens the main compartment of the knapsack and as she peers inside her jaws clench and the muscles in her neck seize up. She’s pawing now among the books and papers; agitation is building in her fingers but no emotion shows on her face apart from sheer muscular tension. From the depths of the large bag, she pulls out a slim binder, rifles through it, stows it on her lap and returns to her explorations. Her lips part to form a word that her mind stops her from articulating. She removes a notebook, then a sheaf of mismatched papers - some dogeared, some torn from spiral binders. Her eyes have lost their coolness; she’s openly searching now as the almost-empty bus rolls toward the terminal. Her upper lip has curled with frustration.
She’s looked everywhere. A flush creeps up her neck, putting the lie to cosmetic pretensions of cool. She glances out the window, sees that the penultimate stop is upon us: with a deep sigh, she stuffs everything unceremoniously back into the big black bag. Her eyes roll up to the ceiling of the bus and I see her choke back emotion, commanding her eyes not to tear. She permits herself to whisper the word “damn” into her lap as she composes herself, gathers her things and leaves the bus for some destination for which she appears to be inadvertently ill-prepared. As she enters the flow of workdawn sidewalk traffic, her long cloak rustles a masquerade of invulnerability around her ankles.
Tomorrow: The ride home. Till then, I hope you have what you need today.
