It was the middle of the night. There were only a few of us waiting for the train, huddled under the electric lamps trying to catch a little bit of heat and get out of the way of the wind. The Belmont el stop was quiet for a change. The clubs had already been closed for a couple of hours, the drunks were stumbling through alcohol dreams, and the young kids in black clothes and geometric haircuts had been reabsorbed into the night.
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The only sound was the wind, and it must have covered the sound of footsteps because suddenly he was standing in front of me, maybe 20 years old, tangled blond hair sticking out from under a baseball cap worn backward, with a kind of softness in his features that could be interpreted as either friendliness or need. When he nodded at me I ignored him, turning to look for the train that I knew wouldn’t be coming yet. He paced in front of me for a minute or two searching my face for a crack of recognition. But a moment later I felt his attention shift and looked over to see who had been chosen next.
A wave of dread passed across the platform. The guy in the army jacket looked at the kid for what seemed like a year without answering. The wind blew again.
I didn’t believe it. The guy’s breath was shooting out of his nose in tense, measured bursts. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his hands curling into fists. It was like watching a bull getting ready to charge a baby with a red handkerchief.
“Hey, you’re about to lose your glove.”
“Jesus loves everything.”
I looked out the window; the kid gave me that sad, eerie grin. As the train pulled away he rushed to a spot on the platform, picked something up, and waved it at me. It was his glove. He was waving it back and forth like a flag.
