Man in the Mirror

I love NYC subway performers.  Yesterday in the Sunday hustle in the tunnels beneath Union Square I came across a man dancing to Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror".  I stopped, sat down on a bench, and forgot about the subway trains rushing past.  The man was dressed all in black with silver sequined ankle bands, white sequined gloves (on both hands, he had improvised on Michael's signature style), and a white straw hat.  Over a black hood which covered his entire head he wore a full length white carnival mask whose expressionless gaze imparted anonymity.  Amidst the hurried crowds he moonwalked as if pulled by a string.  His joints swiveled like a robot.  His arms floated as if weightless.  And for the grande finale, he somehow ended up inverted, his body propped against a wall (I can't explain how he did it, it was as if he was controlled by magic) and melted to the floor like wax.  As he did so, his carnival mask slowly flipped to the crown of his head like a disembodied face.  He took a minute to recover, switched the music to "Billy Jean", and took off his mask to reveal a showman's face.  Out of the crowd he grabbed a little boy, at the most six years old.  The boy's getup was the polar opposite of the man's: a white tuxedo with tails, a black straw hat from which curly hair verging on dreds sprouted and hung to his shoulders.  The boy went into action, moondancing, spinning, grabbing his crotch, and for all the world looking like a miniature Michael.  He and the man danced together, all the while protecting the money pot when the passing foot traffic grew too thick.  As I stayed, others gathered, forgetting to be in a hurry while the crowd grew to more than fifty.  And I wished to have a meter that could measure the amount of talent in New York City's subway system.

Magic

The other day while riding on the A train (I do a lot of this), the doors opened at W125th St. to a gaggle of preschoolers on some sort of field trip.  Ah.... summer camp.  The uproar poured into the train, heretofore peaceful.  I looked up from my book and was surrounded by a forest of pygmies.  A teacher stood beside me, supporting herself with one hand on the pole, the other holding the hand of a little girl.  A little boy sat smiling beside me.  The girl said angrily to the boy, "Stop saying that.  Liaw, liaw," softening the r's in her little girl speak.  The teacher gently intervened, "That's not nice. Don't call him that."  The girl defended herself, "But I know he's not magic.  He's just lying.  He's not really magic."  The teacher continued, "Stop it.  Now you're being a bully, and that's not nice."  The girl pouted.  The teacher advised, "If you don't like what he says, just ignore him."  I thought, those are words to live by.  I wondered if the girl would take it to heart, or if she would learn the hard way.  The boy switched to another seat and smiled at the two of them, seemingly unfazed by the drama.  Perhaps he knew in his heart that he really was magic.

Subway Jazz

Saturday night, waiting for the A train (running late night local) at 59th St., I walked away from John Lennon's "Yesterday" sung as a durge, and into the cheer of "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay". Sometimes in New York, to change your mood all you have to do is walk a few feet down the subway platform. I sat on a bench listening to the old man croon Otis Redding, and thought, thank God for people who have the guts to sing their hearts out. They are a gift to us all.

Mariachis

Yesterday I was taking the subway down to the Upper West Side. Also on the platform were two mariachis in cowboy hats and pointed boots. As they waited, they tried out new combinations: a stretch of the accordion followed by the strum of a guitar. I've seen these guys on other subway trains, usually in groups of three. They walk into the car and, as the doors close, fill it with Mexico. But these guys were missing their third wheel. Sitting on the back of the bench, they looked lonely.