A Regular Job

May 8, 2007

My connection was delayed due to a stalled train on the tracks further up the line. All express trains were running on the local track, which meant that all trains were twice as crowded as usual. I was already late for work, but couldn't bring myself to squish onboard a subway car that looked like an overstuffed suitcase. Shirttails, skirt hems, and backpack straps hung in the way of the doors, and it took the train operator several tries before he was able to close them. "There's a train right behind us, ladies and gentlemen, there's a train right behind us." I'd already resigned to wait for it.

On the platform, two girls were on a piece of plywood, kicking off their sneakers and putting on tap shoes. A garbage collector made them move their sneakers, their bags, and the slab of wood, while he emptied the garbage can behind them. The girls drank water from water bottles and chatted softly to each other as they waited for him to finish. Once he did, they put their water bottles down and slid the wooden platform back into position. As one of them placed a clear plastic container on the ground in front of them, the other began tapping slowly. The other girl joined in, and suddenly they exploded:

An old man standing next to me with longish gray hair, a mustache and sideburns, wearing a baseball cap, aviator sunglasses, and an orange down vest, half-aging biker, half-fisherman stared at the girls for a little while, then looked around at the crowd that had gathered around them.

"Why don't they get a regular job?" he said, to no one in particular. Then he said it again a little louder. "Why don't they get a regular job?"

He paced back and forth, agitated, looking around to see if anyone had heard him. It was such a clichéd thing to say, I wasn't sure if he was serious or not. He might've just been annoyed at the early morning racket and said the first thing that popped into his head.

I tried to imagine what he would've preferred the girls to do instead. Work in an office or a restaurant? Maybe they did. They looked young and might have been students, but I doubt they supported themselves just by tap dancing on subway platforms; however, judging from the way the dollars accumulated quickly in their plastic jar, I might be wrong. Either way, what difference did it make? The bustling crowd of people hustling to "regular" jobs was the truly annoying element. Myself included. Who wanted another stone-faced, heads-down schlub like me line-backering his way to a regular job?

"That stuff went out with the sixties," the old man said, which struck me as especially funny for a lot of reasons. For one thing, it was coming from a guy who looked like a character from a Roger Corman movie, and secondly, what went out with the sixties? Tap dancing?

I decided the guy was simply a kook, which meant that rather than ignore him the way everyone else seemed to be doing, I paid him even closer attention. Just like the tap dancers, he was morning entertainment. When the train arrived, I made sure to get on the same car as he did.

The train doors closed, but the train sat in the station for another minute before pulling away. Muffled tap dancing could still be heard.

"That stuff is for Las Vegas," the guy said. He smiled, though not exactly a happy smile. He seemed to be looking for someone to agree with him, or at least to acknowledge he'd been heard, but everyone ignored him. Or at least pretended to, which is what I was doing. But when he looked at me, I didn't have time to look away. He caught my eye and said again, "Why don't they get regular jobs?"

"Crazy kids," I said.

"Am I right?" he laughed.

"No."