While waiting for the downtown train, Simon looks down
The blackened spots of spat-out gum, worn down by foot traffic and poor attempts at removal by MTA employees, were islands.
Archipelagos, Simon thought. This one an atoll, That one a mangled digit, like Long Island, which was similar in dimension to his native island, the one he had been whisked away from shortly after birth, that one that existed only in his dreams. And that one, the one in the shadow of the black subway trash can, was home to a lone castaway years ago catapulted upon its Lilliputian mass by an undetected squall. Regardless of the castaway’s technologically marvelous but poorly constructed craft, GPS, sonar, all the newfangled gadgetry—he even had a videophone—just wasn’t enough. Sometimes a good old-fashioned whooping’ comes out of nowhere.
The castaway’s name was Simon, but not like the archipelagicallly thoughtful Simon whose surname was Martin. This Simon, the island-bound one, was Simon Saiz. Saiz’s boat, a modern yacht with all the advanced LEDs and flashy icons had been totaled since, since, forever, man. The hardware, for the most party, was salvageable. Hope was on the island. Except for one minor detail. Simon never read the user’s manuals, didn’t know squat about electronics. He had others do that kind of stuff for him. He had the time, though. There’s hope enough in that, Simon Saiz.
This one’s a continent, the flecks of dirt the dreams of its microbial citizenry toiling away for a government seated phatasmagorically far from those it serves.
Oh, Simon, is this the limit of your universe? Beyond the subway system, there be lions? Nope. I’m not afraid of the invisible ferocious. I’m not afraid of being seen.
But you avert your eyes, change directions when you spy an old high school or college acquaintance. So? What’s it to you? That was another country. Dude, I’ve migrated. I’ve crossed the time-life line. I no longer dance the white male indie rocker dance. You know, the head-bopping, torso-swaying, feet firmly frozen dance? See, new clothes. Nice clothes, not the moth-munched thrift-store tripe of yore.
Bullshit, Simon. You pull off the shit on the subway, that "bopping," as you call it. Different. Headphones. I’m on the train, not at a concert. Different.
Oh, Simon.
Simon wished he could shrink himself with some pocket-sized ray and leap, jete from island to island, dine with Saiz, leap and leap away sated in time to re-enlarge himself and hop on the train home.
