9:20 AM: It’s a Friday. But instead of being in the office I’m in the E train to JFK. Today I’ll need to be a good boy in a different way and go to Grandma’s funeral in Portland. (Two years of Manhattan living and it was only this week I noticed I didn’t have a black button up shirt to wear for her — maybe my wardrobe is the last frontier for NYC culture to shape). Five stops to go. My mind is blank aside from being grateful I don’t have to make any more train transfers beyond the AirTrain at Sutphin Blvd.
In comes a guy with a boom box playing “Cold, Cold Heart” — that new one with Elton John and Dua Lipa both. That new one I’ve asked Siri to name at least twice at the Craft + Carry pub on St. Mark’s.
The doors close on Roosevelt Avenue. The guy begins his solo: doing kick flips, jumping up on poles, hanging from the ceiling. If you live in New York, you’ve seen this before. The guy tries to make eye contact with each of us, but most are either half asleep or pretending to fall asleep — impressive, considering how the boom box is at max volume. There’s less than ten people altogether.
The dance is over in less than two minutes, maybe even one. (Was this his 5th or 50th of the day? All my pole dancing friends say it’s a good core workout). He walks around with his hat turned upside down. I give two bucks. He says thanks friend with a warm smile and gives me a fist bump.
The grandma at the last bench says something to the guy. I didn’t hear that part. I did hear what the guy said after: I’ll keep pushing, but it hurts. It hurts. He patted his heart each time he said hurt. Then he opened the door to the next train carriage to do it all over again.
Now I feel guilty for only giving two bucks.