The tall, skinny guy with bike looks unconcerned that he'd just taken the handicapped seat. He's all of 22 and sports dreadlocks and white strings hang from each ear. The strings converged in his left hand. His right pant leg is stuck up in a wad just under his kneecap suspended by some invisible force. His sock is dirty white. His skin is whiter. I wonder why white people mat their hair into dreadlocks. His head bobs while the strings dance. His right hand clutches the handlebars of the bike which sticks out into the isle—a big train no no. This guy's a rebel. That's it. He is on his way home from an afternoon job at the pizza joint on Ninth Street, the one where all the kids hang. He makes minimum wage and lives with three other guys in a flat above a nail salon. He taps his foot while an old lady squeezes by his front tire. He ignores her. Yes, he's a rebel and thinks that anybody over 30 is "old" so why bother giving his seat up? Everyone on the car is "old". His head bobs. His girlfriend's name is Baby. Yes, that's logical. He eats pizza with Baby after work on Fridays and visits grandma on Sundays. At noon he arrives with his hair hidden in a huge crocheted number. Grandma bakes him cookies and offers to wash his laundry. He's really a pussycat at heart but stuck in another body, another mind, another time, another galaxy. He has the entire series of Star Trek The Next Generation on DVD. He jumps up out of his seat, as if to proclaim his youthful dexterity, grabs his bike and deboards the train. His pants are ripped under his left buttock. My attention drifts to a balding woman with red tennis shoes. I bet the dreadlocks kid wears different pants to visit Grandma.
Have you ever had a few hours to sit and observe people until your itinerary summoned you to less imaginative activities? People-watching has the potential to be cerebral dexterity at it's best. Any writer can appreciate that the imagination is an integral component of writing. Just the same, people watching is somewhat of a mental art. It begins with simple observation and quickly evolves into creative interpretation. A fictional story can unfold like layers of an artichoke. In no particular order, you observe facial expression, age, hair, clothing, lack of clothing, gait and behavior. Eventually, after a fleeting examination of your subject, you formulate a conclusion. This summation is the very "heart" of your imagination bestowed upon one stranger for a moment in time.
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What's your latest "observation?"
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Comments: 9
Of course, as my old college roommate used to say, there's a fine line between the observant glance at a fellow passenger, and the glassy eyed stare of a psycho-serial killer...so one must be discreet!
enjoyable article