Dear Diary:
Getting on the southbound No. 1 train at 3 a.m. for work, it’s pretty easy to feel a bit backward, alienated even. There’s a surprising number of people out there who aren’t heading in the direction I am at that particular time.
I hunched in the two-seater next to the conductor’s booth, drinking coffee from home out of a peanut butter jar to save money, watching people end their days. I got to see a guy about my age, cargo shorts and John Romita Jr. Spider-Man shirt, collapse into the seat across from me and pass out against the corner wall.
I watched his mouth open a little and his fingers relax around the strap of the laptop messenger bag he was wearing. All the tension left his shoulders and upper body, traveling down his spine. I heard him breathe in between stops when things quit banging a little and the wheels hit a steady rhythm. I kind of got to hate this guy to his face, while he slept.
Then I heard the door to the next car open, quieter than I ever had. I watched a spider man in his own right lurk up, all bent limbs, and start sniffing around this lucky jerk sleeping across from me. His fingers twiddled a little toward the messenger bag. I unscrewed the cap to my coffee jar loudly enough to make the new jerk jump and look back around the edge of the wall, where I leaned, feet up on the next seat.
I saw him grin more teeth than a human should have and slide back through the door. I got off for TriBeCa and went to work.
Read all recent entries and our updated submissions guidelines. Reach us via e-mail diary@nytimes.com or follow @NYTMetro on Twitter using the hashtag #MetDiary.
