I used to live in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. Just 4 subway stops from the urban chaos of Manhattan but a whole different world. In our local subway stop, there was this character always outside, greeting you when you made it to the other side of the river. The classical local beggar, but he was always looking very quiet, classy, calm.

…The one thing was, that I wasn’t sure whether it was a he or a she.

So let’s call him a he for now. ‘He’ was tall and lean with a caramel complexion and fake dark blond hair. He wore a long camelhair coat and a sad but respectful smile. Day after day, I would see him as I climbed up the stairs, waiting outside to greet me with a ‘good evening’. I got so used to seeing him there that I was a bit surprised when I didn’t see him for a few weeks.

Until, on a brisk fall day, I came out of the station and there he was. But now he looked a bit different. His smile looked fuller and there was something a bit more feminine about his face. He smiled at me, winked and said:

-Hello, welcome back.

I stood there, looking at him a bit surprised, a bit self-aware. Just like one feels when ignoring a homeless person and can’t move away. Suddenly, I just heard this words come out of my mouth:

-Welcome back yourself, where have you been?

There it was. I had broken the silence that was part of our relationship for the last year. I was talking to a stranger.

-Oh nothing, just away working on the masterpiece.

-The masterpiece? - I said, a bit curious.

-Yes, got myself a bit of a new face, don’t you notice it?

-I think I do, actually.

-Well, you better. Because that was about a year’s worth of standing here.

-huh?

-You see… I am on my way to be a woman, but those operations sure cost a lot. I don’t know how to do much –as a man, because I got plenty of plans when I become a woman- so I beg for money.

At this point, the story turned a bit interesting and I could see that he/she was not a psycho or had that distinctive subway bum smell. So I kept the conversation going. He spoke with a heavy Spanish accent but always with a smile and in a very respectful way.

- That must take a lot of patience – I replied.

- More than you think. Lola.

- Come again?

-Lola, my name is Lola. You know why? Lola is short for Dolores, which means ‘pains’ in Spanish. And nothing describes my transformation better than that word: all these operations are a lot of pain…. But as Penelope says: I’m worth it.

She said that with a heavy Spanish accent, and that made me laugh.

The next train came, the passengers came out and she excused herself saying she needed to work. I smiled and said goodbye but she told me to wait for while. So I did.

After the rush had passed, she had said ‘good evening’ about 25 times, had been pushed away about 2 and collected $1,50 in coins.

-You see? I am not a bum… I am a greeter. I love Carrol Gardens. It gave me my full lips and my new face. You see this? –She opened her coat and showed me her chest; under a plain green shirt- I call them “the twin towers” because I got them with money working on the Wall Street Station, the green line. Lots of people with money there. My butt? Look at this! I was flat as a pancake but look at it now… I call it my Theater District, because I got them working on…

-Times Square? – I interrupted.

She laughed and said I was catching on.

It started to rain bit so she said he was calling it a night. I pulled out a 20 $ bill and gave it to her.

-For “Brooklyn” – I said.

-…And do you know what that’s going to be? – She said with a naughty smile.

-Don’t tell me. But good luck with it! – I said as we waved goodbye.

I moved away shortly after that. Never saw her again.

(For Coco.)

∞∞∞

Rush hour in the New York City subway is the most competitive sports of them all. To get in and find that precious empty seat, you tackle like in football. You punch like in boxing. You need the endurance of a marathon and sometimes it’s so stinky inside, you need to hold your breath just like in diving or swimming. The yellow line is the starting line and the moment the doors open, it’s the starting bell. And all to find that sought-after prize: an empty seat. A dry, empty, seat. A dry, empty seat that’s not next to a homeless man.

The race was on more than ever today. It was the end of a long, hot day. Friday afternoon before a long weekend, so you have to keep your eyes on the prize and try not to trip. If you fall, they will stomp all over you.

The car I am riding is totally full except for the seat right next to me. (This always makes me feel self-conscious, why is the seat next to me empty? We won’t anyone seat next to me?) As the subway makes its stop on the West 4th Station, my muscles tighten, getting ready for the avalanche of people. Strangely enough, when the door opens only two people rush in: a thin, corporate looking woman in her 30s and a hunky construction worker. To be honest, he is the one who gets by the seat first but he motions to the woman and offers her the empty seat. She graciously refuses the offer and just stands there. The construction worker, still trying to be charming, tells her:

“Come on, lady, take the seat.”

To which she replies, coldly: “No, thanks, you take it”.

Could it be that I was so jaded that I never saw how civilized the subway can be? Is there still hope down here?

The gracious dialogue continues between them, until the lady, obviously annoyed, finally snaps: “Look, mister, I don’t need you to give me the seat because I am a woman. I had enough of that shit at work today, I am tired of being treated like a stupid little woman! I might be a woman and have a couple of boobs, but yes, I also have a couple of damn strong legs that can keep me up for as long as I want!, so why don’t you just leave me alone and take the seat!”

The guy also loses his patience and finally tells her: “Listen lady, the only reason why I’m not taking that frinkin’ seat is because I have fuckin’ hemorrhoids. You hear me? He-mo-rroids! Big, nasty, red hemorrhoids and they are a pain in the ass…much like what you are right now, ok?”

With that visual in my head, I reach for my iPod. I put on “Let’s call the whole thing off” by Ella Fitzgerald and crank the volume up. The seat remains empty until the next stop, but I hear Ella mixed with the couple who still fights outside of my headphones, something like:

“ You say potato, I say potato… fuck this shit… you say tomato, I say tomato… you and your hemorroids are disgusting…Let’s call the whole thing off”

∞∞∞