Friday Night Subway People

He approached without hesitation, no second thoughts, no reservations. Walked straight up and said “Oh do you work on main street?”

I didn’t know him; he didn’t need me to. He was wearing old clothes ripped in many places and carrying a big plastic shopping bag filled with what I assumed were essentials: a sweater, more pieces of dirty, old clothes and a pair of bright red heels. Nothing about him was significant except two things; his gold-colored, single earring and his heavy Mumbai accent.

There was no Main Street in Manhattan that I knew of. There could be a street that played a main role in his life maybe but his main street somehow felt different than what mine would have been. I wasn’t even sure if I had a main street in my life. Part of Amsterdam Avenue between 80th and 79th maybe? For that’s the shortest access to coffee, ice cream and beer; a 24-hour convenience store was my main street.

A short and soft no followed my head shake. I didn’t want to break anybody’s heart at 2am in the middle of an F train platform, including the late night subway crazies. Especially the late night subway crazies.

“Oh do you work…(inaudible mumble) ??

“No” I said, still surprisingly soft and trying hard not to raise neither hope nor resentment.

“You don’t work?”

“No”. And I really didn’t. I happened to be out of a real job, freelancing on odds and ends, mostly subleasing the extra bedroom in my apartment. I also sold clothes online. Making just enough to buy the main street ingredients to last me a month.

“Oh you just in here for free drinks?”

God! Why did he have to take the philosophical turn all of a sudden? Just out of nowhere, bam came a question that’s too vague to be a real one with purpose and subtext and too deep to be regarded a crazy person mumbo jumbo. There were no free drinks in life. Not then, not ever. He knew that. That’s why I didn’t need to explain it to him. I just put a crooked, half smile on my face and said yeah…just here for free drinks.

I took out my phone from my bag and visually asked him to leave me alone now. I could handle late night subway craziness but not the philosophy.

This time, he took it personal. My trying so hard with soft no’s, my calm efforts were all crumbled down to nothing. He called me an asshole and walked away. That was that.

Platform seemed deserted again except for the flickering lights of an approaching Manhattan-bound F train. It was 2am, which is 10pm on a friday night. Brooklyn was just waking up and it was time for me to get back to my main street. No free drinks, no nothing. Some stale coffee, a bowl of ice-cream and a beer or two and I would be all right. Just no philosophy, please.