Drunklust Wandering, part 2

One of these nights, I'm going to aimlessly travel the metro from stop to stop just talking to random drunks. There is something peculiar about the people you meet after midnight waiting for the metro.

The other night, myself and E.B. were waiting on one side of the metro station going west, while E.C. was on the other side going east. The great thing about situations like that, where you sort of don't want to scream across the divide, is that pantomiming takes on a greater significance. E.B. starts out with sending semaphore to E.C., which none of us knows. I'd like to imagine that he transmitted the letters "W," "T," and "F." In response, I send the letters "Y," "M," "C," and "A," in the fashion popularized by the Village People. E.B. busts out what he remembers of the Oriole bird dance. I counter with Michael Jackson's moonwalk. E.C. is ready to fall over, either from hilarity or shame. I'm about to try a handstand, but E.B. warns against, as the metro cops are itching for action.

Far overhead, the dingy gray arches, recessed square frames in the concrete pretending to lend class to our glorious metrorail. Dirt clings to everything down here; the marbled seating has been waxed and oiled a mottled blackness. Atop it, a woman comes and sits. She comments on how she can't wait fifteen minutes, and how bored she will get, all the while playing with a yellow/black polka-dotted snap bracelet. Overhead, the LCD screen informs us our train will not arrive for another fifteen minutes.

I know that I shouldn't pass judgment, but when I stare at her, I can't help but wonder what the hell went wrong when she got dressed. Her curled brown hair wrapped in a ponytail hanging off the right side of her head. Large sequined heart earrings, silver dollar sized, the center cut out, hanging off her ears. Sky blue eye shadow dusted across her eyes, perhaps an inch outward from her pupils. A white dress with black polka dots, and black spandex tights. Cherry red pumps. It's like she dropped straight out of Bill and Ted's phone booth/time machine.

She keeps raveling and unraveling the snap bracelet, and I've finally got to ask. Yes, she went to an 80s party, and none of her friends live at her metro stop. Throughout this exchange, she keeps staring at E.B., who is getting more and more furious as he looks at the road map. He has determined that we could have either taken the metro to R.B.'s mythical club, or just walked one more block. There is fury welling up within him, like a desperate song that needs be sung.

For the next X period of time, I do my "make absurd statements and gesticulate wildly" thing, E.B. paces back and forth and chimes in, and she just sits and laughs, every so often looking at E.B. Finally, the floor lights flash, the train rumbles in, the LCD screen states "ARR," and we have arrived, or it has arrived. I look up and make the following comment.

K.T.: It's pirate time!
Eighties' Girl (E.G.): What?
K.T.: "Arr."
E.G.: I never thought of it like that.

Then she quickly backs away from me and rushes onto the train.

She sits in a bench to the left, E.B. sits in a bench to the right, and I stand in the middle. As E.G. observes, I can't sit next to a guy on the metro, and she places her pocketbook down atop the seat next to her. No doubt, trying to get E.B. to sit next to her, but he would have none of that. The rest of the ride is a concerted discussion on what we've missed from the 80s, such as MacGyver, Full House, Perfect Strangers, Gummi Bears, Darkwing Duck, Ducktales, the Smurfs.... The list goes on and on.

When we arrive at our destination, and are ready to alight, I realize that I don't know her name, and she knows neither of ours. Introduce myself, find out her name is A. Unsure as to whether or not to call E.B. back from the door and introduce them, and ultimately decide against. I think E.B. missed an opportunity, but he wasn't feeling it, as I found out later.

This is OK, because when you're not feeling it, things can get awkward. Like the time a guy on the street offered me oral pleasure for $5. Believing that I should never pass up a chance to debate the merits of new criticism versus marxist critical theory, I tendered my $5 and followed him into the alleyway. This is where I found out that a very thin line separates pleasure and stupidity, among many other things, and that not many people are actually willing to discuss literary analysis on the street.