After I got home tonight, I heated up some leftover pork loin and canned spicy Mexican-brand beans. I brought the platter to my desktop computer desk (that’s right) and began eating dinner while catching up on my temporarily discarded cyberlife, which inevitably takes a tumble every work day of the week. The first thing I saw was a post on my Facebook wall which brought everything clearly into focus…
It all fell into place now. It surely explained the disappointment of the 2 ugly chicks earlier on the Red Line train I took home.
I’m a downcast-eyed person.
This is most glaringly obvious on public transportation where you are frequently lingering in an enclosed, static environment in close proximity to others for long periods of time. There is basically no opportunity to do anything but look at other people. Too much so. Too many people, too many faces, too many voices, too many feet. It’s unbearable to me. I hate over-stimulation and there is nothing that public transportation can offer except over-stimulation. I avoid this, my coping mechanism, shall we say, is by having downcast eyes. I hardly look up if I can help it. This is not an ingratiating public habit, but so what. I don’t care and I’m certainly not trying to make friends. If my eyes are not in that “ignore your ass” downcast state, I am probably staring blankly at the high event horizon where I’m likely to escape human eyes. I have commuted over an hour on public transportation without looking more than 3 people in the eye. I don’t look at people, I sense them. I hear them, I watch their bothersome shapes slither in and out of my peripheral vision. I can’t look at too many people without feeling overwhelmed.
I boarded the Red Line this evening and found some empty seats in front of couple of White women (my peripheral vision) but I never got a clear look at them. I could tell they were blonde and White, and by their discussion, very White. As I settled into my immobile zombie subway state, one of them said “bingo” which I naturally took personally as a sign of flattery though she may have been talking about anything else but me in the world. Whatever it takes to make me happy, I will gladly believe. They were talking about single men, yada fucking yada. I zoned and stared at the curved plastic partition in front of me, a great pose for avoiding people’s faces and noses and eyes. For 15 minutes we careened from stop to stop and I knew there were two blondes behind me and my curiosity was frankly piqued. They said bingo when I sat down! I resisted the temptation to turn around and look, but that would be an affront to my downcast subway pose and the greatest hypocrisy of my life. So I merely sat there, perpetuating my downcastness while their chattering faded into my distant interest.
As the 7th Street exit approached, the girls began rustling. They got up and stood in front of me, one of them gripping a pole near my face which is always provocative (to me) when done by a woman. That was the short one. Her friend was tall and spindly. I refuse to tilt my head. I watched, with my eyes only, as she neared the doors before they slid open. She was terrifying. Zero make-up, ratty hair, a very natural White woman with blemishes and bad skin. Perhaps about my age. One of the less prouder moments of WASP portrayal. When I see women like this, I second guess my proclamation that women shouldn’t wear so much make-up. This woman is the type that actually makes me question whether all women should be legally obligated to wear makeup. And thus a determination of public presentation to be decided by a panel of male judges. And as the doors slid open, out followed her short friend, the one who had gripped the pole not far from me. Eww. Not an improvement. Her face was a tad more “becoming” in the loosest, haggardly sense. I will give her this much: she had great tits, but once again, the cosmetic case might have done wonders for her and me; or a bottle of Jack Daniels for me. The short one wore a t-shirt with the Union Jack. Disappointed that my rear neighbors were best left unseen, along with the glimmering promise of “bingo” rattling in my ears, the train departed and I forgot about them.
Until I came home and read the post on my Facebook wall.
The Who, at the Staples Center. Aha. The 7th Street/Metro exit is popular for Staples visitors, it is not more than a couple of city blocks away. The ladies were going to see The Who.
I bring my eyes down again because nothing is really ever worth seeing.