Between Columbus Circle and 86th Street, the last car of the 1 train is rarely crowded in the middle of the day during the week. The last several cars empty out near the exit at the 86th-street station, so I always trekked north on platforms before entering the train. One day, I found myself alone in the first car with a black man who looked at me as if I’d invaded his bedroom when I sat down opposite him. He treated me to a piercing perusal that grew uncomfortable. In order to diffuse the situation, I exaggeratedly lifted my gaze to the signs that ran along the top of the car like a festive datum of mixed media, spying him as clearly as I could through my peripheral vision to see if he had calmed down.
He was well dressed, though his jeans were quite frayed. He wore a beret in a deep camel color, a crewneck sweater of a similar color over a button-down-collar shirt, and leather loafers in rich caramel. His gaze lingered until he felt sure I’d lost interest and within a few seconds of believing he was no longer being watched, he broke into karaoke laughter—a wide open-mouthed laugher emitting no sound. He tossed his head back with an almost ecstatic expression on his face to expose large teeth, straight and white against his dark skin. His lips remained a mime of amusement, frozen open, for quite some time.
It wasn’t until the train approached 72nd Street that his face grew serious. His hands shot forward, gesturing as if making a point during an argument with some imagined foe. These emphatic movements, which included splaying fingers and pivoting wrists for emphasis, lasted until the train sped away from 79th Street. Then, as if the rocking motion thrilled him, his neck arched once again, his hat touching the metal panel behind him while he remained overcome with silent glee.
Taking advantage of the fact I was nearing my stop at 86th Street, I lifted my backpack, pretending to adjust my glasses to sweep my gaze across him a few times. He had grown relaxed enough that he was lounging in the two seats adjacent to the conductor’s compartment, his long legs crossed at the ankle, shoulders wedged into the corner made by the train’s skin and the metal bar marking the entrance/exit. His hands, which rested in his lap most of the time, would flutter to life every so often, teasing from him his outrage at the perpetrator locked inside his head. I stood to leave and he jumped up, rushing toward me as if he had suddenly decided I was a permanent member of his troupe. Thinking on my feet, I threw back my head and laughed exactly as he had—silently and mirthfully. He looked alarmed, retreating to his seat as if I were insane. I stepped quickly off the train.
