Walking behind me on Madison were a boy and girl. They were probably in their late teens and they had the look of best friends, even though one of them secretly hoped their relationship would become more. They were happy, just now finally hitting the point in their lives when they were growing comfortable in their own skin.
Excitedly they named great cities.
New York!
Montreal!
Chicago!
Their future constellation of travel.
When they caught up to me the girl had to tell me what a cool sweater I was wearing. I smiled at this and complimented them on the bow ties they were both wearing, one white, one black– the flourishes they gave to the day.
On Bloor a sweep of tall Asian teens floated down the sidewalk past a boy with a foot-high afro upon which was perched a cardboard box with the words, “Headphones $3” written on it. This guy was too cool for school, projecting an utter indifference to the constructed oddity he was presenting, his hands coolly in his pockets, his sneakers a perfect manifestation of attitude and confidence. The girl standing beside him just stared, her eyes dewy and in love. She would stand with him on a chilly street corner for an eternity!
A woman wearing a crafty hat she likely made herself led three children down the street. She was telling a story, “Well, if the Incredible Hulk ate all day he’d….” They passed by me and her tale drifted away unfinished.
On the subway platform a very young pregnant girl stood blowing soap bubbles, each one bobbing aimlessly through a crowd that was growing restless for the train.
An older man collided with the closing subway doors. He tried to jam his arm in and pry them open, but failed. He then gestured it away in contempt, as if telling the subway he didn’t need it anyhow, just one more aspect of the modern world that was a disappointment.
Across from me sat a middle-aged woman reading a book called “Sing You Home.” On the cover there was a picture of a woman walking away, as if having just made a decision to move toward a thought rather than a place.
Later, taking a cab home I listened to the driver as he spoke through some dispatch system to three other cabbies. In four distinct accents they spoke about the Toronto Maple Leafs and the chances that they might acquire Rick Nash in a trade. Sighing over the Leafs loss the previous night to the Devils, my driver described the deciding goal, “It was very much as if a ghost had slipped out onto the ice and tipped that puck in. I was so upset when that happened I did not eat the dinner my wife had cooked for me. Oh, she was so mad at me!”
