Lieutenant Dan

I stand on the courthouse steps looking out over my kingdom. It wasn't until today, when I sought the sun, that I realized just what the imperial building behind me was. The people walking by are all the same right now, it's their before and after stories that are different. The woman in the pink shirt wears funky wedges with mat silver finishing, as if spray painted. This is surprising considering her Jackie O hairstyle. The older man with his headphones says business professional, perhaps single as well. His world has a different soundtrack than mine. I hear the ding of the train while he hears Beethoven's 9th Symphony or Sisqo's Thong Song.

I've been surprised by public transportation courtesy. As I recall in Boston, it was very much a to-each-her-own fight for a spot on the T. Up on Federal and 38th a raw collection of urbanites creep out of the evolving barrio. There are probably 6 of us. I arrive last, having the luck of living 3 houses and one "mofles" shop away from the stop. I worry that the scarred man in the denim jeans and jacket can see my thought bubble, which questions an entirely denim ensemble. I pop this judgment balloon and gaze off in the direction of the now late 38.

The bus finally arrives and the American file I so love (compared to India) begins to form. However, as the bus opens it's doors Mr. Denim All Clad holds back. He silently motions me ahead with a slight nod and twist of the wrist. Is this young white girl courtesy or your every day sort?

The woman on the bus has shoulder pads and always says things like, "Well gee Barb." Her name should be Dot. Barb and Dot work in the same building and are secretaries for engineers. In their late forties, they converse about their pedometers' accuracy and various harmless life details. What do the engineers think of them? Were they hired because they were the best or for lack of better applicants, or for lack of ANY applicants? This is how I think about my life.

I like the front of the train. There are more interactions among strangers who customarily have to relate with other strangers. The man in the wheelchair sits across from the morbidly obese man. Both had to use the handicapped ramp and entrance to get onto the train but for very different reasons. The former lifts himself out of his wheelchair to sit himself upon the seat, legs dangling lifelessly below. The latter, legs intact, can barely remove himself from the sitting position to an upright one. As the obese man leaves the other gentleman manually arranges his legs in a crossed position. It is odd to me that he chooses to do this. I doubt it is more comfortable. It appears, rather, to be for the impression of comfort: the naturalness of live legs that is implied by their intertwining.

Arbitrarily, I think of sleeping with the man, wondering if I should be ashamed of this thought. I think this all has to do with Lieutenant Dan from Forest Gump and my perceptions of him as a sex symbol as well as the first sexual male that made an impression on me as a child. Then again, it could just be because I fear the loss of my sexuality. Slowly I let it leak from me and loiter upon strangers in wisps of thought that drain from my being.