i was anxiously waiting to cross the street. My train was pulling into the station across the street. But there was a row of cars who all had the green light, a slow line of cars all waiting to turn. It was agonizing to watch them, slowly approach the intersection, then slow down even more, and take a long, cautious right hand turn (it was snowing). All the while, the train was slowing to a stop.
The trains don’t wait long. Either you’re on the platform or you’re screwed. So when the traffic was finally clear, I made a run for it. (I gave that last car, the slowest of the bunch, a little slap on the trunk.)
As I approached the platform, there was a lady struggling in her wheelchair. Her wheels were spinning and, though I couldn’t hear what she was yelling (I had in earphones), she was frantically waiving her arms and pointing at the train. I told her to hold on.
I grabbed the handles of her chair and, pushing hard up the platform, plowed her wheelchair through the deep snow to the train. We made it just as the doors were closing. The door actually closed on my foot and there was a bit of a struggle pulling my foot loose. We both laughed at the huge mound of snow we’d plowed directly into the train.
She said, “Well, that was bullshit.”
I agreed. And she asked me where I was from. I told her I recently moved here, from Portland. She looked horrified, gesturing out the window at the swirling blizzard.
“You moved here?! For this?!”
I said I moved here, not exactly for this, but yes, I had moved here. And I asked, are you from here? She said, “Hell no.” And she stuck out her chin. “I’m from Chicago.”
I said, “So you had the chance to move anywhere. And you moved here?! For this?!”
We had a good laugh about that. I was focusing my camera on this bag of Funjuns. The bag, I guessed, was roughly the same distance from this lady (so the focus would be closes). I was going to ask if I could take her picture, and if she said yes, I’d at least have the focus dialed in. But I didn’t get a chance to ask if I could take her picture. She got off at the next stop.
She said, “This is me, you have a good night, Nate from Portland, Oregon.”
So then, it was just me and this bag of Funjuns, condemned to the sloppy floor as trash. I took the picture.
There was another man, sitting close by. He asked, “Are you a photographer?”
I said, “I like to take pictures. Would you like me to take your picture?
He said, “Hell no, I already got too many pictures of me. You can see them at the Minnesota State Fair. They got drawings of me there too. Pretty ones. Ones of me and this black lady. You can buy them for $400 each.”
I said, “Okay.”