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III. Panhandler on the F Train Dark petals and fronds beckon even to the crewcut youngster in uniform, a paperbagged bottle their decorative accessory. The grave boy stops. Mothers across the car stiffen, raceless, speak with eyebrows. Crash of passage obliterates many words, but we hear him call the boy 'sir', his practiced solo leaving the wives in Mexico and California (plus two here) he'd sung to the brother who listened till the last Manhattan stop, for variations now basso, military. We see his ashy sockless feet in wingtips. And a scrubbed hand does leave book for pocket, pull wrinkled potent dollar from a grownup leather wallet, to pay the future for another drink. We'd know his mother if she came aboard. Night's petals close over their earnings, while the crafted performance goes on graciously - but this boy's done what he could, needs to read his lesson, takes his book to the car ahead. The next stop's mine. He paid his dollar. The brother before him listened for two long stops. We watched. The panhandler knows we watched and heard both tailored offerings. He pops his throwaway cane under his arm and hops on an impulse out ahead of me, way ahead on the platform, into a train about to go back up the uptown track. IV. The Mystery of First Day On the Uptown Express In that corner of the train, not one of the new trains, there was no doubt: next to the conductor busy with his window on the long caves the dusty and as if sanded down young man was establishing a center. His leaning forward on his knees changed my balance. When the peddler came he brought three religious calendars painted on rolled bamboo and a fat aunty clutching the pole told him she liked his choices. His eyes moved deliberately as if he looked always out the same window at one scene and had time to notice its important but unsurprising seasons. The conductor gave him instructions twice mild and precise as to a sick cousin. His hands slow on his rolled calendars seemed to remind themselves of touching. Continue Death While Traveling |
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