“This is mad” he thought, challenged by the idea of taking NYC subway for the first time. He recalled his first subway run in Moscow, and that all-too-thorough map – a big circle crossed by a few colorful lines to take you from point A to point B (C to D, E to F…); however, for any indirect route taking the O of the big circle was inescapable; the evil system seemed perfect in its completeness. Millions of Igors and Tanyas ran in that circle routinely, setting up destinations around the big O. Now, the Moscovite girls surrounding him had surrendered, eyes broken; the MTA map seemed inadequate in its complexness. In fact, Daria just gave a blank girly gaze and nodded “Lead!”
***
In slumber, dipping his head “yeses” to quotes on Jean Baudrillard, sleepy neurons gasping affirmatives to whatever he read about those philosophical circles, his stomach vibrating, hands shaking, black letters in the book shimmering, whenever the bus halted at traffic lights or next stop. He was somehow aware that his bony body pressed against the blue seat of the motor was taking him along the Broadway of Brooklyn, and was soon going to turn to a familiar street. Some deep structure in him wanted the soon to be as distant as possible.
There was some certain masochistic pleasure in soaking himself into the mud of these suspicious speculations on wary theories. Heavy lead circuits in his musing head were wearing him down off the seat into the abyss of after-morning-shift siesta. On Sunday afternoon, one would usually find him on Sunday with his eyes closed, head pressed against the window, in a Q train. His eyelids would release his vision as soon as the reflection from {X} green cement walls at Prospect Park stations cast green tint on passengers’ tired faces. He would then try to fight snooze all the way to his station and then his room, then at last his daily round-trip would be over and drowsiness, too. Take off the shoes, put the stinky socks away, and take the shower – round up the O before another cycle of sleep.
This Sunday had to be different. Well, he knew that the big O would be there anyway. But was determined continuing the good tradition of creatively altering it. The tradition itself however has become monotony. But, he regularly made resolutions to restrict the nonsensical rationality and simply enjoy the prescription of the flamboyant whim. This time it had to be all about buses. In M15 he went through a passage on postmodern condition. He went all objecting to Taoism when finding no simple path from hunger to satiety around in a Chinese block off Houston Street. Determined not to go back to the M36 bus stop, on foot, he crossed Williamsburg Bridge, where through metal fences he enjoyed stunning views of the five boroughs. He concluded that the bridge was unique, because one could see all the major bridges connecting all boroughs; one, usually disoriented by numerous maps, could at last enjoy a clear vision of the Big Apple. However, he or she, shocked by the view wouldn’t be able to commit suicide, jumping of the bridge, the system didn’t offer such opportunities, it would instead love us all alive. Well, Breezy air
