A Light in the Tunnel

            There’s a woman that works in a tiny MTA booth on the downtown side of the 157th st. red line up in Harlem. I don’t even know her name and I’ve been walking past her for many years now. All this time I’ve been running past her, whizzing through the steel turn stalls to catch a train that’s more than not going to slam its door in my face. No one has more power than the dude that controls the opening and closing of the New York City subway car doors. He’ll be looking directly at you, as you struggle to get your bags through the gate, and not even consider holding the doors open two more seconds. Even if you are rushing like Hell you always have enough time to glance back and flash her a quick smile and a wink. It’s part of my daily routine as much as taking the train itself or brushing my teeth. She’s a part of my week and has no idea. She’s on friendly automatic with hundreds of people coming and going in blurry herds. I’d never be able to find the words to describe this woman as she bops and bounces to whatever is playing on the radio. Every song seems to be this lady’s absolute favorite and I love her for it. The energy she brings to that hot, sticky subway tunnel is priceless for those jaded New Yorkers like myself. She sings her heart out with wild abandon and is giving you hip hop from the waist up! She doesn’t care nor should she. She swivels around in that chair like she’s a guest on Solid Gold. Every day she sings her guts out as though she was headlining the Apollo. You can’t really hear what she’s listening to behind the three inch “glass” but the visual is so great. It’s her own private party in there and nobody’s going to pop her bubble. She has created a swirly cubicle of love and light that touches every person that makes eye contact with her. Who is she on her own time, off the clock? No one is denied a huge sincere smile and no one can resist reflecting back the same. It’s like rubbing the belly of Buddha every day, but MTA style. She should win an award for being a rock star in a bullet proof box. If I was her I’d have a loaded pistol cocked and ready at any moment to eat lead should one too many people give me shit! Of coarse I’d only turn the gun on myself after blowing the head off the asshole that inspired the breakdown.

              This woman’s attitude baffles me. How can you work in a transparent cubicle underground and maintain such a graceful approach to life? I’m enchanted by her survivor’s perspective. Nothing’s going to get this diva down at any cost. If someone looks at me the wrong way I could crumble. She’s a fortress of wonderful that never seems to crack of fade no matter what shift she’s working. To me it seems she’s unshakable from behind that glass. It’s like a homosapien exhibit at the zoo...except I’m the endangered species held captive on the other side of happiness.