Strangers on a Train

"Here's something I'd like to see-Gypsy dancers from Paris. Performing to, like, hip-hop and gypsy music-would you like to see that?"

"Mmm," her boyfriend said.

I'd grabbed the last available seat on the Brooklyn-bound train. Next to me was a couple in their mid-20s. He was trying to read something, and she had the latest issue of New York magazine open on her lap.

I'd opened my bag and started reaching for some reading material of my own, but the moment I heard her voice, I retracted my hand and closed the bag. Wasn't going to be any reading going on with her around, I had a feeling.

"Tickets are $45, can you believe it?" she said.

"Mmm," he replied.

"Well I'd still like to see it. What about this? It's called "Ultraviolet,' and it's an exhibit of neon art by some of the Warhol Factory people."

"Not really."

"Yeah. I don't know any of them. Oh look-Brian's show didn't get a star."

"It shouldn't have-it wasn't very good."

"They should've given him more room. It was such a small gallery. They could've put him in the bigger room up front or something. Someplace bigger. Not that little space"

"I didn't like the wings."

"The wings? Yeah. I've seen that before, haven't you? I liked that other thing, though. He's a traditional video artist. Some of it was interesting."

'Not the wings."

He continued trying to read, and she turned the page of her magazine. "People love that Sweeny Todd," she said.

She turned another page. "I went to see that Arcade."

It was becoming less and less clear if she was actually trying to communicate with her boyfriend-or anyone for that matter-or if she suffered from some crippling brain disease which forced her to utter aloud whatever random phrase happens to enter her head. It seems to be an affliction endemic to people who ride in the same subway as me.

Slowly I could feel the anger beginning to well up and burn inside me.

The train rattled under the river toward York Street.

"I think Gray's Anatomy just jumped the shark. Or is jumping the shark or something."

"Hmm?"

"Did you ever hear that on The Howard Stern Show? 'Jumping the shark'? It means that point when a show gets bad."

"Oh."

"I think Gray's Anatomy is doing it now."

"Yeah," her boyfriend said, no longer bothering to look up from his book. It got weird."

She turned the page of her magazine again.

"Jessica Simpson has a $35 million contract. Can you believe that?"

"Really?"

"I want to see The Office DVD set. The British one, not the American one."

"Yeah," he said, "it's so rich." I couldn't tell if he was being snide or not.

Quietly, the idea began to form in my head. In my mind's eye, I saw myself reaching over and gently removing the magazine from her clutches. Then I would lay it on my own lap and place my arms across it. I would hold onto it that way, without saying a word, until they reached their stop. I just wanted her to shut the hell up. I got the impression that her boyfriend did, too.

I didn't grab the magazine, of course. I think that would've been a disastrous mistake. Instead, I reached into my bag and pulled out my pen and notebook.

Together they represented so much, so much of what was wrong. You could even say they were a caricature of what was wrong, and they left me feeling, somehow, like a minor character in American Psycho.

I opened the notebook and began to transcribe everything I was hearing.

The train pulled into the Fourth Avenue stop. The two of them gathered their things together and stood. I breathed a small sigh of relief, but continued writing as they finally stepped off the train, New York magazine clutched protectively to her chest. She still had so many pages to look at.

Perhaps it was a rude thing of me to do, but "rude" doesn't seem to much matter to people who are that oblivious and that empty.

I was a little drained from the encounter by the time we reached my stop, so I popped into the grocery store. Lord, how I needed more beer. And some mustard.

I brought them to the checkout and set them down on the belt.

"I like your Indiana Jones hat," the cashier said as she rang everything up. I couldn't recall if I had seen her in there before or not. There's such a turnover.

I felt a little twinge as I searched for the proper bills. It wasn't an Indiana Jones hat. Not even close. At least that wasn't as bad as the people who call it a cowboy hat. Jesus. Still, I've seen plenty of people around wearing Indian Jones hats. Most of the people who do, I've found, tend to have beards and tend to be jerks. I didn't like being associated with them.

"Thanks," I said. There was no point in bringing any of this up with the cashier.

"You hear he's making a fourth one?" she asked.

I presumed she was talking about Harrison Ford making a fourth Indiana Jones film.

"Yeah, I did hear that," I said. "I dunno, it just seems a little?"

"Yeah, right? He too old for that. But he still wants to go out and be like this big action hero." She shook her head as handed me my change. "You see his new one yet?"

"No, uh-uh."

"Well you see the commercial, you know what's gonna happen, you know? He gonna save his family and kill all the bad guys."

"Hasn't he made that movie already?" I asked.

"Oh, that's the only movie he ever makes."

The simple truth of it gave me a much-needed chuckle. I thanked her, grabbed my beer and went home. The couple on the subway was fast becoming a memory.