The View from a Drawbridge

One day, the summer of my 25^th year, I was standing in a New York City subway station and had the place to myself, which was a surprise. I was waiting for the sound of the approaching transport as you do in those situations. Once you’ve read all the advertisements, there’s really nothing to look at. At least in an elevator you can stare at the floor numbers, for all the good that does you.

And then down the urine-scented stairs came this man, moving so quietly I didn’t realize he was even there at first, so it gave me a start when I finally noticed him. He was a tall thin Rastafarian with dreadlocks all the way to his waist. Dressed neatly but inexpensively, he seemed to make it a point not to invade my space. He went and leaned against a pillar many yards away.

I’m a people watcher from way back, and with no train in sight, I started imagining his life in my head. Where did he live? Did he have children? What did he do for a living? What would we talk about if given the chance? And then finally I heard the sound of air rushing through the tunnel. He shifted, and we made eye contact. And they were the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen, before or since. As cliché as it sounds, they took my breath away. I really wanted to know this man. I wanted to say, “Wait! Talk to me.” Of course I didn’t.

We got on separate cars. We got off at different stops. And I still occasionally think of his eyes. I’m sure I didn’t stand out in his mind even back then. He was probably thinking about his plans for the day, or what to buy his kid for his birthday or something like that. But he is the standard by which I judge all eyes to this very day.

You just never know the impact you have upon those around you. I love the possibility that I, too, am in someone’s head like that, but by this type of encounter’s very nature I will never know.

Neither one of these are quite right, but you get the idea.