Christmas lights illuminated the train station. They hung from the brim of the roof, curved like waves every few feet. The temperature dipped below uncomfortable territories; somewhere between cold and can I move to Florida? People shuffled out the revolving door every few minutes, rushing to stand and wait in the cold. The man on his Blackberry—too consumed by an office memo—looked like he might sit on someone. He never did. People-watching turns from thrilling to mind numbing when we can predict their actions. Surprise me, people.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” a boy asked. Twitching from the cold, he sought comfort in his jacket pockets and re-wrapped his plaid scarf.
“Go for it,” I said, motioning for him to take the portion that I could sacrifice.
He observed me, almost as if waiting for something more, but said, “Thanks. What a strange night, right?”
I raised one brow but nodded, giving a false impression of understanding. This December night didn’t stand out among the rest in New York. But spending time with a bunch of Manhattan wackos makes any night noteworthy.
“Where are you headed?” he asked. Engaging in small talk makes me want to barf—and not in the throw up in your mouth way.
“The city,” I responded. I glanced at him for a second, but returned my gaze to the tracks, hoping to summon the train by concentrating hard enough. The Christmas lights flickered, but no one else bothered to notice. A group of hipsters gathered in a circle and bantered about the problems of the world. They appeared transfixed by every word the others spoke, as if they all bathed in the rhetoric of gods. Visionary speakers only arise every few decades, but I’m sure these people were loaded with inspiring nouns and adjectives.
“Me, too,” he said. “I’m off to start a new school, Prichard Academy. Have you heard of it?”
It’s easy to fake a smile—like in holiday pictures, for example—but this felt more forced than usual. It required the amount of energy needed to act like wearing a blinking sweater didn’t make you want to die. “Yeah, I go there.”
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“I wish,” I muttered, but he didn’t notice. People covered the platform, and chatter roared from corner to corner. The thought of stepping into the crowd and pretending this kid didn’t exist, grew more tempting each time he opened his mouth. But beyond the talk of the surrounding New Yorkers and a humming in the distance, the sound of the boy rambling about his passion for literature resonated through my thoughts.
“Do you know about the Beats?” he said, playing with the stud in his ear.
“I’m sorry, the what?”
“The beatnik generation, they were a precursor of the hippies. You should read about them. A few weeks ago, I devoured a piece by Kerouac, On the Road. It’s not a moving piece, but it contains an element of curiosity that consumes a guy. The journey carries you down a peculiar path, yet it intrigues you to the point that you never want to set it down.”
I maintained my fixation on the tracks, but said, “Interesting.” In my head, the aroma of cinnamon greeted me at the door. Mom untangled my scarf and hurried me into the kitchen, and my sister tugged on my hand, explaining that a new Barbie needed to meet me. Glancing back at Mom, she told me a slice of apple pie would await my return.
“Do you think you will?” the boy asked.
“I’m sorry. Do I think what?”
“Do you think you will stay in state for college?”
“I plan to,” I said, regaining focus. Knowing he would offer the information whether or not it was invited, I asked, “What do you want to do?”
Warmth radiated off of him, even when the pink in his nose turned red. He tugged his scarf out of his jacket and beamed as he searched for the right response.
“Columbia offers one of the most prestigious journalism programs around. But the literature program at NYU, it’s next to none,” he said.
My mind brought me to another world. The fireplace would roar next to the Christmas tree, and there might even be a faint smell of chicken from dinner. My leftovers would be tightly wrapped in a clear container waiting for my arrival. I could almost taste the hot chocolate my brother would prepare as soon as I got home. The whistle of the train interrupted my daydream and forced me back into reality.
“Finally, it—” I turned to a plaid scarf where the boy sat a moment ago. Glancing at my watch, no more than ten minutes passed since he sat down.
The crowd dwindled as people began to board the train. The boy I never wanted to meet had me snatching his scarf and giving up all hope of spending time with my thoughts.
A handful of people lingered around, a woman reciting French from a booklet, a man in a pinstriped suit. A guy in his early twenties munched on sweets from a Ziploc, with a look of ecstasy plastered across his face. What a mellow dude. I approached the ticket man, who reeked of cigarette smoke and scowled at every oncoming passenger. Not everyone’s brownies have dollops of happiness embedded in their crust.
“I’m looking for this guy,” I started, explaining he forgot his scarf on the bench.
“If he’s not in your car, leave it on the front seat,” he said, grabbing my ticket.
Unfamiliar faces waited aboard the train. Progressing down the aisle, none of them belonged to the guy from the bench. At the back of the car, I turned to a lady already engrossed in a paperback.
“I’m sorry, but there’s this guy,” I said, struggling to come across the words to describe him. My mind sought after the specifics, but they hid behind the obvious features.
“Honey, every teenage boy appears skinny and tall,” she said, preoccupied with presumably the world’s best novel.
Smokey the ticket man entered the car. He gave warnings about finding your seat and not chain-smoking to the point of revulsion. Or maybe the last part I imagined, but either way, he wandered forward, mumbling to himself. I hurried to the next car, hoping to find the guy from the bench settling in for the ride.
The lights dimmed, and a roar signaled the train would leave soon. The last thing I needed was to fall on my face in front of a train full of strangers, so I reluctantly found a place to rest. I took a window seat a few rows in, peering onto the empty platform.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” The guy from the bench grinned at me, knowing his game went according to plan.
“Go for it,” I said, dropping the plaid scarf onto the seat. My thoughts fought to overtake the situation, but I suppressed the daydreamer within me. “What do you want to prove?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m cold, tired, and frankly, I would rather be anywhere but here. Yet, you noticed that and chose to ramble worse than Kerouac about the intellects. By the way, this “journey” they went on was more of an acid trip. Then, you disappear, knowing I would find you.”
“You do know of the Beats,” he said, smirking with satisfaction.
“Of course I know about them.”
“But you never did find me; I found you.”
The train hit the tracks, creating a distraction. At this hour, most people tried to read or relax—the daring ones attempted sleep. But a murmur broke the silence, and helped me remain sane.
“What do you want prove?”
The guy stared at me, twisting the stud in his ear and appearing mindless. He ran his index finger across his chin to stroke a patch of facial hair. “Prove anything? I pulled you out of your own world, if that’s what you mean. We thrive off of our own self-involvement and never dare to step outside of our zone of comfort.”
“Do you think that makes you an intellectual? Carrying on about the Beats and great literature doesn’t make people change.”
“I don’t try to act like an intellectual; I want to become more than one. You can think about life or live it. If even for a second you wandered out of your own mind, then it paid off.”
He clasped his hands together and turned forward. The car grew silent around us. I smoothed the pads of my fingers against the armrest, pondering his last words.
“Hi, I’m Grace,” I said, offering my hand.
He stared at me for a moment and formed a grin. “Guy,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Guy, seriously?”
“That’s what they call me.”
“What a freak.”
“Says the girl wearing the teal pants,” he retorted.
The clatter of the train hitting the tracks continued. A few rows up, a couple chatted about the release of the latest iPad and all of the new features it encompassed. Every few minutes, someone would turn a page in his or her book. I remained aware of my surroundings, but focused on the strangeness of this New York night.