Breathe (12am)

From April 20, 2007:

(unedited) Tonight.

This woman got on at Whatever Street. Going uptown. She has a near-newborn strapped to her chest and a 4 year old boy being dragged by his forearm. It’s quarter to midnight on a Thursday. Both kids should really be safe in bed at home, but they’re not. Instead, they’re cruising on the Uptown A-train. Her acrylics are long and due for a touch-up as she grabs her son, “jay=jay” underneath the armpits in an attempt to pull his head closer to her lap, all the while she has a bottle filled with formula jammed in the mouth of the near-newborn who screams from tiredom, not quite hunger as the train hurtles forward.

Jay Jay is screaming as they board the train. I feel for her and offer to pull his other leg onto the seat cuz its just dangling there, and she says okay. “Can I tie his shoes?” I ask, and later realize that must sound a bit patronizing. “Yes, please” she says. She never thanks me, and I tie his shoes carefully, as not to wake him, because it’s now nearly midnight, and he’s only four years old and deserves to at least know what its like to be safe at this time at night. But I’m judging her, which isn’t fair - I don’t really know her story, and her kids are really cute.

Something just tells me that they’re getting off with me at 145th, so I listen to Bjork, as the train leaves the 135th Street station as she begins to gently slap and then pinch Jay Jay’s face. “Wake up, you have to walk now” she tells him. The train eases into 145th and I pause my iPod. “I’ll help” I tell her as she tells Jay Jay that she can’t carry him. “I easily scoop him into my arms and he screams at the knowledge that a stranger has him in his arms. “It’s okay” I tell him, “Your mom’s right there” She’s grabbing two black plastic bags, and his hoodie in her hands as we climb the stairs. He’s ramrod straight in my arms, so I try to cradle him and she mistakes it for weakness, “I know, he’s not that light anymore” she tells me. “I’m gonna call his father when we get upstairs.” She walks over to the bench upstairs which is still inside the turnstile and a payphone hangs beside it. She thanks me as she lifts the headset, and I grab Jay Jay’s hoodie and prop it beneath his head as I lay him on the wooden bench. He’s still crying. He’s only four. And somehow, I think he deserves better.