collective reverie.
No one to go with now, Ned was dead, Dad out in Sudbury, Benjy not a fan. It’s true I’d had friends once, but they were gone too, off to college, G-chatting the days away, waiting for night under campus lights, hair assholically gelled.
Switched at Park to the Red Line, headed for Harvard. Where once sat women—mothers, commuters—now there were coeds, 18 to 25, my demographic. They studied under dark-tunneled duress, textbooks flopped open overhiked skirts, hands frantically highlighting with thick neon Sharpies. Even in public they were in their own worlds—calculus, bio, postfeminist theory—sheltered from subway odor by perfume force fields, sequestered from frat-chat by DJ-sized headphones. Pristine ladies of the Red Line: pedestaled by their own pampered beauty, deaf to my desperation.
At Kendall, a group of black girls got on, all young, all a gaggle with hood slang and unrestrained laughter. Loose-fitting Nikes over tight-fitting jeans. Natasha was among them, just another subway bopper in the USA: sassy and befriended, admired by her peers.
Waved my hand in warm hello, but the girl wasn’t actually Natasha, didn’t want my tender friendship.
“Whatchou looking at?”
“Yeah,” her friend added. “Fuckin’ pervert.”
Because looking was illegal. Nothing worse than to focus eyes on another, study how she went about the world. We were isolated selves, shoved into solo corners, stabbed by stuck-out umbrella ends and pangs of futile human4human hunger. We publicized it all on the Internet, from inner thoughts to excrement, exhibitionists until someone turned to look. Then suddenly we were shy.
Head down in reply. Floor thick with mud, liquid life. Sunkist can rolled through the aisle. Gum wrappers glued to the floor. Mushed remains of a Snickers bar.
Couldn’t remember the last time I’d left Quinosset. Used to come here all the time, peruse record stores, stock up on army surplus attire back when that was hip and maybe so was I. Seventh grade? Tenth grade? Who could remember? Biggie was right: things done changed. But the reliable Pit was still roughly the same.
A dugout redbrick arena surrounding the subway stop.Clubhouse for castoffs: teen runaways, day-trip skater punks, post-love-dread-hippies smoking mom-filched Salem Lights. Lappin and I used to join in poser repose. Tried to coolly hover on the fringes, sneaking looks at the goth girls, pretending we belonged. We didn’t belong.
In a sense the Pit kids were like me, but bolstered by the confidence of their anti-everything convictions. They’d forgone the comforts of bed, bath, etc., for pseudo-socialist camaraderie. Slept over heating vents. Spent days scaring tourists by poking out pierced tongues, wildly ollie-ing, groveling for dollars. Drank beer from paper bags, called cops pigs, hustled out of sight.
Today the Pit was packed. Like a Pit kid convention: dudes with rattails, dudes with hemp tails attached to their pants, dudes tattooed to their bodies’ limits with images of dragons, medieval weaponry, evil-looking clowns. They condescended over the interloping others—Harvard kids, adult homeless, street musicians, lunching bank tellers—who shared their brick empire. Played something called the Penis Game. Started with one guy whispering the word “penis.” Then the next, singing it a little louder. Taking turns until, eventually, the bravest among them screamed “penis” in full voice, in triumphant glee, as if the word could shatter the world. The Penis Game’s subtext was oddly affirming: “The body exists. Don’t deny that shit, son!”
Plus something encouraging in the way they all laughed, rubbed shoulders, affectionately called each other “shit stains” and “clit-dicks,” head-butted, fake fought, fell off skateboards, fake cried, fake died, faked fuck-sounds, fake mugged freaked tourists only to point and laugh, rejoice in the power of defining an environment. It all seemed
No one to go with now, Ned was dead, Dad out in Sudbury, Benjy not a fan. It’s true I’d had friends once, but they were gone too, off to college, G-chatting the days away, waiting for night under campus lights, hair assholically gelled.
Switched at Park to the Red Line, headed for Harvard. Where once sat women—mothers, commuters—now there were coeds, 18 to 25, my demographic. They studied under dark-tunneled duress, textbooks flopped open overhiked skirts, hands frantically highlighting with thick neon Sharpies. Even in public they were in their own worlds—calculus, bio, postfeminist theory—sheltered from subway odor by perfume force fields, sequestered from frat-chat by DJ-sized headphones. Pristine ladies of the Red Line: pedestaled by their own pampered beauty, deaf to my desperation.
At Kendall, a group of black girls got on, all young, all a gaggle with hood slang and unrestrained laughter. Loose-fitting Nikes over tight-fitting jeans. Natasha was among them, just another subway bopper in the USA: sassy and befriended, admired by her peers.
Waved my hand in warm hello, but the girl wasn’t actually Natasha, didn’t want my tender friendship.
“Whatchou looking at?”
“Yeah,” her friend added. “Fuckin’ pervert.”
Because looking was illegal. Nothing worse than to focus eyes on another, study how she went about the world. We were isolated selves, shoved into solo corners, stabbed by stuck-out umbrella ends and pangs of futile human4human hunger. We publicized it all on the Internet, from inner thoughts to excrement, exhibitionists until someone turned to look. Then suddenly we were shy.
Head down in reply. Floor thick with mud, liquid life. Sunkist can rolled through the aisle. Gum wrappers glued to the floor. Mushed remains of a Snickers bar.
Couldn’t remember the last time I’d left Quinosset. Used to come here all the time, peruse record stores, stock up on army surplus attire back when that was hip and maybe so was I. Seventh grade? Tenth grade? Who could remember? Biggie was right: things done changed. But the reliable Pit was still roughly the same.
A dugout redbrick arena surrounding the subway stop.Clubhouse for castoffs: teen runaways, day-trip skater punks, post-love-dread-hippies smoking mom-filched Salem Lights. Lappin and I used to join in poser repose. Tried to coolly hover on the fringes, sneaking looks at the goth girls, pretending we belonged. We didn’t belong.
In a sense the Pit kids were like me, but bolstered by the confidence of their anti-everything convictions. They’d forgone the comforts of bed, bath, etc., for pseudo-socialist camaraderie. Slept over heating vents. Spent days scaring tourists by poking out pierced tongues, wildly ollie-ing, groveling for dollars. Drank beer from paper bags, called cops pigs, hustled out of sight.
Today the Pit was packed. Like a Pit kid convention: dudes with rattails, dudes with hemp tails attached to their pants, dudes tattooed to their bodies’ limits with images of dragons, medieval weaponry, evil-looking clowns. They condescended over the interloping others—Harvard kids, adult homeless, street musicians, lunching bank tellers—who shared their brick empire. Played something called the Penis Game. Started with one guy whispering the word “penis.” Then the next, singing it a little louder. Taking turns until, eventually, the bravest among them screamed “penis” in full voice, in triumphant glee, as if the word could shatter the world. The Penis Game’s subtext was oddly affirming: “The body exists. Don’t deny that shit, son!”
Plus something encouraging in the way they all laughed, rubbed shoulders, affectionately called each other “shit stains” and “clit-dicks,” head-butted, fake fought, fell off skateboards, fake cried, fake died, faked fuck-sounds, fake mugged freaked tourists only to point and laugh, rejoice in the power of defining an environment. It all seemed
Similar Books
