He sat proudly looking almost regal on that dingy grayish subway car seat. The color range of his clothes went from charcoal gray to black; even the trim of his shearling coat was part of that color scheme, as was the well-groomed moustache.
He had an air of somber thought, an elegant prince among the dusty, dirty passengers. He was deep in thought, it seemed; maybe he was just napping. I could smell his aftershave, a mix of some commercially available product (Old Spice?) and the incense oils sold by African traders on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn.
At every stop the train made, my mind leapt at the possibility of his exit; feverishly guessing if this would be his stop. Every time the metallic sound of the announcer broke the semi silence, I briefly created a scenario for him. Maybe Nevins Street would the stop. Maybe he would get off here; maybe he was a recent immigrant, (he hadn’t acquired the “New York dinginess”) say from Ghana and he was going to meet up with his buddies. But he traveled on.
I imagined him to be a ras, overlooking the traders in Flatbush; maybe he would indeed get out at Atlantic Avenue to go get the earnings from the day’s sales. But, he traveled on, looking ever more comfortable in his make-shift throne. On our approach into Manhattan he took out his cellphone. Naturally, it matched his attire perfectly. He looked intently at its screen—perhaps he was going on a date and was checking the exact location of his rendezvous.
He put his phone away and gently put a glove on. I hadn’t noticed until now that he had gloves.
“This is Bowling Green,” the metallic voice announced. He closed his eyes again. Alas, even this stop wasn’t his. More people got on the train, I fretted thinking they would block my view of the king. A man sat beside him, almost pushing into him, but nothing seemed to break through his impenetrable aura. Nothing. He looked around almost suspiciously and then caught me glancing (staring?) at him.
His face opened whole into the kindest smile; his eyes were bright and inviting.
“This is Brooklyn Bridge, City Hall” interrupted the tin can voice. He got up, nodded, and exited the train. A trail of thoughts flooded my brain, but all I could do was smile. He had made my day.