Close encounter

This morning, I was forced to come to grips with this truth: my headphones and book do not make me invisible.

Ok, so I knew this back when one of those spa certificate canvassers tried to engage me near Madison Sq. Park in spite of obvious asocial accoutrements like headphones and sunglasses. At that point, the last evasive maneuver (yelling "No no no no no!") had to be taken.

But this morning, I was on the Uptown 6, blinking in the general direction of my book and listening to music. I felt a tap on my arm, and a woman asks me what time I have. Or rather, that's what she seems to ask me (I have those wonderful ear-plugging headphones). I take out one earbud, to be polite, while I show her my watch (it was 8:50am and I'm too sleepy–thanks West Coast baseball!–to speak or read an analog watch).

As we examine the face of my watch together I realize that I know this woman. I have overheard her commiserating on the N train in a non-indoors voice. Upon looking for the source of this voice a few weeks ago, I had noted her big hair, her drawn-outside-of-the-lines lipstick in watermelon pink. Oh yes. This lady has intruded upon my morning reverie before, though never quite as directly.

She clutches her heart. "Oh thank gawd I'm not going to be late."

I smile and go to reinsert the earbud as the doors close and we lurch out of 14th St.

"They're terrible at this job. They mark you down if you are one minute late. But you know me, I need my money from this job. I haven't been there that long."
"Really? Wow." She is standing so close to me, is speaking with such familiarity, that in my morning haze, it takes me a minute or two to realize hey wait no I don't.

"I have to help my mother pay for the airconditioning bill. It's so hot you know I can't sleep without the AC. I looked at the bill last month and it was $280. So we're splitting it three ways, me, my mother, and the tenants upstairs (gestures upwards, to indicate said tenants occupy the higher region of the subway car). She said 'Give me $80,' my mother says. She's so good to me. Really takes care of me, you know? I'm divorced."

I stare. We're not even at 23rd Street.

She then goes to tell me about how terrible her bosses are (they don't care she has to commute from Brooklyn, whether fellow workers are pregnant–by the way, she worked up until she was 8 months pregnant... her son is now 23), how a good man is hard to find (women's lib spoiled them all).

When we arrive at my stop, I know more about her than I do some of my close friends. Also, she has touched me (twice) and called me ma'am (thrice).

I kept my composure and did not pound on the subway door, begging for escape.

And listen, I'm not a mean person, really. It's just that early morning commiseration should be short and ideally wordless, unless you are an attractive man. Though, even then, wordless might be best. Nothing spoils your idea of the attractive man (or woman) on the subway quicker than coversing with them.