Portraits of a Commute

by Kerri Anne Ladish

October 7, 2009

I see her almost everyday, walking briskly from a bustling downtown square, headed slightly west, her coffee in her left hand, a portfolio in her right. Sometimes she has an umbrella, but most of the time she is nearly running, seemingly almost to her destination, head down, eyes focused on not tripping nor slowing her stride. Even on the coldest days she is never wearing a jacket.

Three men at the bus stop, looking jovial and yet tired, jackets tattered and eyes squinted against the wind and rain, the three of them huddled closely together underneath an awning just large enough to keep their heads mostly dry. One man is taller than his two companions. As I walk by he looks at me and finishes rolling a joint.

He is the highlight of the holiday excursion. Seasoned joy mixed with a hardened face and a microphone. Singing boisterously with his portable karaoke machine, his face in permanent grin and his voice echoing in and out of the max lines, his enthusiasm for caroling instantly infects the myriad souls wandering past on the sidewalk; his festive spirit allows no one to pass unscathed. We meet eyes as I’m watching through a nearby window. He nods his head, smiles, and continues singing “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.”

A mother and daughter sitting across the aisle from one another on the train, cell phones blazing, voices loud enough for everyone within a ten-seat radius to hear. The daughter is writing a poem. She flicks her wrist and flings the paper at her mother as she’s getting ready to answer another call. I catch the first line as she’s shoving her stanzas into her mother’s already occupied hands. “Fuck love” is etched messily and boldly across the top of the page.

Raindrops drip, drip, drip, dropping on an umbrella that is just big enough to cover my shoulders, but cares nothing about shielding my feet and legs from puddles that have formed on every corner, on every street. The sound is soothing, and yet my slacks are tired of being soggy, my hair annoyed by the perpetual wind-blown look it has been forced to accept. I don’t mind walking; my mind is clear when I walk. Sometimes I count. Sometimes I count blessings. Sometimes I count the idiotic sentences I’ve uttered throughout my life. While writing a grocery list in my head, I momentarily lose my right foot in brown water while attempting to ford a flooded corner three blocks from home.

Kerri Anne Ladish
writes here