Sept. 14, 11:23 p.m.
4 Train – Grand Central to Atlantic Avenue
The subway is not for the easily shamed, and thankfully for those bored on this late night ride, it does not appear the young white man at the end of the car has any: He’s twisted a white t-shirt around the center pole of the train like a French braid, and – headphones plugged in – is dancing and lip-syncing.
His sports allegiances are mixed, with an all-black Red Sox cap, a black and gold Jordan t-shirt, and black Iversons. If one wants to go there, and I suppose we will, his white tee is perfectly placed as an inappropriate fifth appendage.
He has several dance moves. The thrust is his favorite. While going in and out, his body also vibrates.There is also the splayed fingers, gun-shaped, jostling up and down and pointing in directions unknown. When not thrusting – and sometimes while thrusting – he bobs his head side to side. He rotates around the pole and loses his braid, retying it quickly, but without the braid. The song appears to be at the bridge, and he’s calmed into a slow slide, back an forth.
As the train gets ready to depart Atlantic Avenue he stands in the door, looking out, the white tee bundled in his hand, still thrusting, still lip syncing, not stopping even when the door, his curtain, closes. He’s got other audiences to entertain.
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