Thursday

The subway car is packed, crowed during the usual morning commute. This particular Thursday I choose the car of the N express that seemed emptiest only to realize a homeless man is asleep on the center bench, leaving me and my fellow travelers to pile into either ends of the car.

A pretty boy my age rolls his eyes at the man wrapped in the only coat he owns. For a brief moment, I felt sorry for this lost soul after I realize that I had had the same reaction when I boarded the silver train and quietly thanked the Lord that the subway car did not smell of urine and trash. I had made that mistake twice before.

I turned, positioning myself with my feet slightly apart so if I had to take my hand off of the metal bar to turn a page in the book I was reading. When you become one with New York City, you learn these tricks.

Tricks and unspoken and accepted rules. You rarely make eye contact with fellow commuters, unless you're offering your seat to an older individual or a woman with child. Unfortunately, I enjoy people watching -- I observe. I smile at the babies sitting in their carriages, the children sitting quietly beside their parents with their little hands folded in their laps. Usually, the proud parents notice, and they reciprocate the smile in the direction of their child.

My eyes dart to a male, black police officer who pulled his flashlight from his belt just as the conductor stated that we were momentarily detained.

"Hey, buddy," he says as he knocks the heavy flashlight against the plastic seat, beside the sleeping man's head. The man, startled from his slumber, bolted to a sitting position and wipes the sleep from his eyes with his dirty hands.

The officer exits the train. The doors slide shut behind him, and we start to move, our bodies react to the inertia.

I felt sorry for the man. But I admit that I sympathize more for those around me, the ones who woke hours before their colleagues in order to take the subway into Manhattan from Brooklyn; these people work full-time in order to feed their families and pay rent.

I cannot tell you what the point of this little rambling was about. Perhaps this is no more than scattered thoughts of a tired production associate while she rides the crowded Broadway express on a Thursday morning.