I’m on the Far Rockaway A train on my way to the tracks. I’m in sad and lovely communion with the sounds in my headphones so the man’s rusty deep booming voice startles me. He says, I’m blind and I’m broke, any change you can spare will be very much appreciated. It strikes me that phrases like ‘very much appreciated’ seep so deeply into the minds of every person, even those of us who have nothing. I notice everyone looking back and forth at one another and at the blind man. The blind man taps his cane on the floor. The cane is made of aluminum and its bottom has been worn to an angle which he continues to wear upon while he stands there tracing some invisible infinity symbol on the floor. The cane is red and white and I think there must have been a holiday gag played upon him by cruel members of his family in a dusty room in some dusty era. A guy dressed like a vigilante commando, a hispanic guy with slick hair and swift movements, takes out a big stack of bills and thumbs through it. He rises sly and swift and grabs the blind man by the elbow as if by force and firmly stuffs a dollar bill into his hand. The little girl he got on the train with sits next to me watching him, dumbly staring upward. He wears sunglasses but we both can tell he makes eye contact with the girl as he retakes his seat. The blind man does not know how much he’s been given but he repeats the phrase very much appreciated two or three times while crumbling the bill and stuffing it into his pocket and the vigilante nods silently. The vigilante unzips and thumbs through his swede fanny pack and rezips it and lifts the strap to his messenger bag and glances in there for a second and then he is still. He has a lot of zippers on his pants and he wears all-black sneakers that look brand new. He looks combat-ready, a new A-team member. Another guy, he looks Korean, wearing boat shoes and black jeans, brings the blind man some change, shaking it on his way, apparently announcing something. I’d say thirty-two cents. I’d say one quarter, a nickel, and two pennies. Thank you thank you the blind man says, very much appreciated and the rapping of his cane stops momentarily. It starts again. He heads toward me, swinging his stick back and forth in figure eight against the feet of everyone in each row as if he were conducting a census. I feel an enormous pressure upon me to hand this man money. I take off my headphones and sort of fumble around, not looking for money really or anything else, just restless, aimless. My lines, my lines, I think. I’m feeling the heat of a magic lantern, as if it were inside me flashing everything outward onto a screen. I had decided a few minutes ago that I wasn’t giving this guy money if the only reason I would be giving it was because I was pressured to perform in some noble way by the people around me. The blind man hits the pole that stands directly in front of me with his cane, hard, six or seven times, and repeats his message for the new section. He leans his back against the pole and stands there collecting money. The Grant Ave. stop approaches and he asks someone what stop it is and they tell him and he gets off. I put my headphones back on in a dumb effort to shield myself from their silent appraisals of my performance.
An Asian guy wearing a leather jacket gets on at 80th St. He holds a stack of DVDs, the topmost of which I recognize as a title still in theaters. He walks slowly but his hands are swift as he flashes his goods silently, wordlessly egging us on. The zippered commando shoots him a mean look and shakes his head no, his disgust and contempt clearly drawn as if he were told to express such feelings by a director. I’m asking myself if this is more like a trial by jury, with our maintenance of the balance and cleanliness and comfort of our own minds having to play defense attorney, or if it is more like a play, with a hostile, judgmental audience guessing every motive while we play the actor and playwright both, the Shakespeare, calling the shots, working, improvising our bit roles, negotiating with the crowd like the craftiest and most subtle actors of the stage. The train stops at 88th St. and the vigilante and the girl get off.
Thinking back to Grand Central Station, it occurs to me that a huge amount of shrewdness must have gone into the construction of this city. That in the process of building that unique spectacle of commerce, with outrageous sums of money constantly produced and disbursed, someone counted to the penny, demanding deadlines, side deals, and threatening against past promises. It must have been a real show. There has been no curtain, no intermission, I’m thinking.
I walk through the overstuffed parking lot toward the tracks. I am backstage, rehearsing, running through visions and revisions, awaiting a cue from the lights or subtle strings, readying myself for the next scene, hoping to improve.
