Westbound L train

Illustration: Forsyth Harmon

“It’s your favorite time!” you shouted to about twenty seven captive people, of whom I was one.

How did you know? This was my favorite time.

Months back, when I spotted those signs on the subway cars that say “Hold the pole, not our attention. A subway car is no place for showtime” I wanted to wield a Sharpie and efface them. How dare they. A subway car is exactly the place for showtime. The only place.

“Showtime showtime showtime!” you shouted as you cleared the carriage, happily shooing and clapping away passengers who shuffled off to find other poles. You were young, solo, tattooed and wore a “THRASHER” t-shirt. As you prepared your stage I noticed that I was rearranging myself a little in my seat. Sitting up a little straighter in readiness like the good audience member I was.

I love showtime like only a non-native can. To a person who moved to this city at the age of 25 from London, where making eye contact on the tube is basically illegal, the eruption of a momentary circus on public transport seemed miraculous. When it first happened I wanted to call someone. Do you know about this? These guys who do these crazy acrobatics and spin around poles and yet manage to not kick anyone in the face? I’d drink it in and think “this is so New York!” not quite knowing what I meant by that except that it was good and it was not London. I soon realized that the “the most New York” thing about it was not the spectacle itself, but the way in which almost everyone on the train would calmly ignore it. In this respect, I wish to remain a tourist.

In this freshly cleared subway car I could now see the man opposite me. He sat, dolorous, with a giant trash bag at his feet from which sprouted a shiny red helium balloon bearing a cursive message of affection. This whole edifice was fenced by haphazard plastic roses. I have always loved this day. Loved it best on the subway: everyone carrying the anxious hopes of their roses, or the monstrous, cellophane-suffocated disappointments of bears with paws sewn to plush red hearts.

Michael Jackson’s “P.Y.T.” began playing from your radio and your routine began. You spun and flipped and you were great. I put my book away to look at you. Perhaps made vulnerable by their roses and bears, everyone else looked at you too. We all wanted to love you. We clapped vigorously when you were done and as you came round a young woman looked you in the eye, placed a dollar in your baseball cap, and said, in a very deliberate and sober way: “You are very talented.”

Beside me, a vampy lady of a certain age, Cruella de Ville-ish in black-splotched white fur, turned to me with her pencilled eyebrows arched high: “He was good!” She was very surprised. I just nodded, eagerly.