July 23, 2009 6:28 pm
D Train – 42nd Street to Pacific Street
A girl dressed in a yellow sundress opens up her book – The-Not-So-Perfect Man, by someone named Valerie Frankel – immediately. It’s a paperback. She has two purses, more like bags, one on each arm: the red leather one is big enough for a decent-sized blender, the white leather one for two decent-sized toasters. She wears flip flops, and delicately balances a framed black and white photo between slightly doughy calves.
A man stands over her wearing a baseball jersey, a white one with a red stripe, possibly of the Angels, with gray creased slacks and wide-toed black shoes. He has a white on white striped shirt and red tie on beneath the jersey.
“No problem,” he says to the blonde, attractive 20-something behind him. She is dressed well, office chic in a gray, low-necked shirt and a pressed black skirt. She exudes more class than sex, aided by The Economist in her hands and white Banana Republic bag in blissful contrast with her black purse. She had fallen backward when the train stopped at Broadway-Lafayette, grabbing for the center pole with magazine in hand, prompting the 50ish black man’s pleasant response. They both smiled. He then said excuse me, exiting the train at Grand St.
The blonde sat down at a seat next to the door, where three recent college graduates stood. One watched a movie, or a TV show, or a physics lecture, on his iPhone. The other two knew each other and talked animatedly. All three where vertical striped shirts – blue, green, pink – and slacks – one grey, two black. They all wear dark brown dress shoes. The pair talks about accounting, CPA tests, and what to do to impress a boss. A Ph.D in accounting is considered. They seem genuinely content as the train crosses over the Manhattan Bridge.
Across the car, another 20-something is on chapter one of an indeterminate Harry Potter book (chapter title: the other minister). Looking up, he may be closer to 30. It takes around one minute to flip the page. Next to him are two rather large people, one woman, one man. On closer inspection, the woman is rather thin in her turquoise top, which unfortunately runs into the ripe lime green golf shirt of the man occupying half her seat.
Finally, your correspondent realizes he is on the wrong train, just in time to avoid heading toward Coney Island.