Philadelphia.
I was waiting on the platform for the arrival of the subway train. A tall black man was also waiting. Since I've returned to the city, I've seen him twice before this particular instance. He's easily recognizable. My pair of previous sightings of him were memorable because he was dressed like a Confederate general. This is an odd wardrobe choice for a black man, considering those who wore gray coats in the Civil War would see him in chains, tilling the soil on their plantations if they had their way. Maybe this guy goes for the "ironic" look, in line with the hipsters of our generation. But he looks like he's in his thirties, closer to forty, which would distance him from the usual "alt" lifestyle the younger people are choosing these days. He sprays his hair on, too.
But this time, he was no Southern separatist. He was Morpheus, ready to free the mind of someone caught up in The Matrix. He wore a long black trench coat that shined in the florescent lights of the station. Shades tightly hugged his face and completely hid his eyes. He stood still, arms folded behind his back, as he waited for the train, tall and imposingly looming over the track. His fake hair also reflected the lights to create something like a little halo. For a moment I saw him as a tortured guardian angel, garrisoned underground to protect the light in the darkness of the tunnels below the streets of the city.
I thought about the MRT (Mass Rapid Transit) stations in Taipei. The distinct odor of maple syrup wafts around those stations, new and sparkling, with little aquariums that house exotic fishes. I snapped out of it and the mysterious figure next to me became just another freak in the piss stench of the subway station.
Philadelphia.
The train pulled up and the first thing I noticed when I boarded was a old woman with a contorted face seated near the door. She was flailing her arms around her head and mumbling a lot of gibberish, directed at no one in particular, incoherent to me or anyone else on that subway car, yet seeming to hold significant meaning for her. The man in the trench coat sat behind her.
I was waiting on the platform for the arrival of the subway train. A tall black man was also waiting. Since I've returned to the city, I've seen him twice before this particular instance. He's easily recognizable. My pair of previous sightings of him were memorable because he was dressed like a Confederate general. This is an odd wardrobe choice for a black man, considering those who wore gray coats in the Civil War would see him in chains, tilling the soil on their plantations if they had their way. Maybe this guy goes for the "ironic" look, in line with the hipsters of our generation. But he looks like he's in his thirties, closer to forty, which would distance him from the usual "alt" lifestyle the younger people are choosing these days. He sprays his hair on, too.
But this time, he was no Southern separatist. He was Morpheus, ready to free the mind of someone caught up in The Matrix. He wore a long black trench coat that shined in the florescent lights of the station. Shades tightly hugged his face and completely hid his eyes. He stood still, arms folded behind his back, as he waited for the train, tall and imposingly looming over the track. His fake hair also reflected the lights to create something like a little halo. For a moment I saw him as a tortured guardian angel, garrisoned underground to protect the light in the darkness of the tunnels below the streets of the city.
I thought about the MRT (Mass Rapid Transit) stations in Taipei. The distinct odor of maple syrup wafts around those stations, new and sparkling, with little aquariums that house exotic fishes. I snapped out of it and the mysterious figure next to me became just another freak in the piss stench of the subway station.
Philadelphia.
The train pulled up and the first thing I noticed when I boarded was a old woman with a contorted face seated near the door. She was flailing her arms around her head and mumbling a lot of gibberish, directed at no one in particular, incoherent to me or anyone else on that subway car, yet seeming to hold significant meaning for her. The man in the trench coat sat behind her.
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