A variation of blues hits me as I sit down on the hard, cold seat in the silver container. The screeching halts and persistent rocking are something I’ve gotten used to. The scent of an elderly woman who has bathed herself in perfume wafts through the air and strongly asserts its presence. It’s gross. A low hum of overlapping voices vary in pitch under the steady monotone of the train chugging along. We are momentarily brought out of obscurity while crossing the bridge into Manhattan and are thrown back into darkness. The lights-like little flashes of lightning- guide the way for this heavy metal limo. Grand street. Here, the cemented tiles on the wall are no longer smooth and polished like they once were. Cracks trickle through them like protruding veins as the dirt accumulates on them. Different colors are pushed out of the train: A red head, a brunette, a blond. The “Big Booty song” begins beside me in between fits of laughter.
Thirty more minutes until I’m home!
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