Thursday

So right when this appeared to be the rare ride with little afoot, I'm distracted from this pretty crappy book of Gide's (are they gay or just French?) by the harsh crackle of second-hand music creeping out from underneath someone's headphones, er, "earbuds." I notice a couple other yuppie passengers also glancing around for the source, equally indignant. Finally it's spotted - Harry Potter, only without the magical powers, the friends, or whatever boyish charm that schmuck is supposed to have. Same hair though, same glasses, same gawky, lanky, peripubescent awkwardness. And an iPod, I presume, judging from the compulsory white tendrils, and it's turned up loud. What the hell would a kid like that be listening to so loud, so obviously for the benefit of his fellow travellers? With what shall our young hero prove his point? The crackle becomes ordered, forms a familiar pattern, and it dawns on me: Aerosmith, "Love in an Elevator," blasting. And he's pitched forward in his seat, leaning almost aggressively out from the edge of the seat into the aisle, elbows on knees, head nodding only a little spasmodically and nearly on-beat. He's been practicing. "Livin' it up while I'm going down..." The crackle continues to permeate, and it's amazing how long a song really is when you're underground. We, the silent sulking cattle, breathed a collective sigh of releif when our chariot rolled into Jay Street. A handfull of junior-high thugs careened into the car and our hero, beset with dragons, it would appear, sank back in his seat. The crackle faded. His head was still.