August 25, 2009
B Train, 42nd Street to 96th Street
“Que?” a young father, no older than 24, asks his son, who looks to have popped out of Mom just a few months ago.
“Ehhhhhhh…ahhhh….ehhhhahhhhahhhh…” is all the boy offers in response. Mom pushes the stroller back and forth, rocking. Dad claps his hands to a vaguely salsaic bit, and finaly the baby turns a cry to a laugh – temporarily. Mom looks unmoved.
The baby is in an all-grey onesie that includes a hoodie. He’s got a brown stuffed animal vaguely resembling a reindeer, and an expired sucker with residue that suggests it was cherry or strawberry. Mom picks the stick off his tray and sticks it in her mouth – meaning it’s either hers or she really loves her baby. She’s in a mauve dress, and for whatever reason – the screaming baby, an argument in Spanish with her husband, a shitty job – she doesn’t smile throughout the ride.
When 50th Street hits, Dad navigates the stroller out. Switching to English, he asks, politely ‘Excuse me’.