Over the Weekend (2), or Also on the Train

 

Her blaring. Over and over, her shrill notifications. Not only NEXT STOP SUCH-AND-SUCH-CITY, but also RESTROOMS AT THE BACK, and KEEP YOUR FEET OFF THE SEATS, and PUT YOUR BAGS IN THE OVERHEAD COMPARTMENT, and NO SPEAKER PHONE, and on and on, in her New York(?) Boston(?) accent.

She approached. She photographed the ticket stubs stuck above my aisle seat. “Somebody told me when they got off that you’ve been recording me,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I said. “I think you like your job.”

“No,” she said, “I’m pleasing the boss so I can keep my job. If he says [I forget what], that’s what I do.”

I touched her arm. “I think you should be a teacher,” I said.

“No,” she said, “I don’t want any of that. I want to retire. I have eight years.”

“Do you want any banana bread?” I asked. But off she went.

I don’t guess I’d take anybody’s banana bread, myself.

 


 


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