Observation Deck

I enjoy observing people. Much more than I like talking to them. When I was younger, my friends and I liked to sit in trees (I swear), drink beer and watch the local adult softball leagues. We'd pick a player or three and discuss what we thought their life was like based on their body language.

Like the guy on the train this morning. He's a semi-regular who bears more than a passing resemblance to Tarantino, though he's a red-head. By the looks of his clothes and demeanor, he's a back-room guy somewhere, probably a civil servant. Clean, but basic. And balding, a diminishing wisp of curl floating like an island at the top of his forehead, the rest of his coastline receeding to reveal ribbons of pinkish flesh. Doesn't see a lot of sun, his face a waxen pallor.

This guy is clearly smitten with a blue-eyed brunette who sits in the same spot every day, as do I. She's cute, in an off-hand way. Not the type that makes you sit straighter in your chair, but there's a uniqueness to her look. Her nose is too small, too delicate, overwhelmed by her other features. Some days, it's clear she can't be bothered with her hair. Others it's intricate in its design. She's reads, though perhaps only on the train, considering how long it's taking her to get through that Grafton novel. Works retail somewhere, or attends a trade school, based on her causal look, today's jean shorts and tie-dye tank top a typical summer ensemble.

Tarantino brusquely chats her up every time he sees her, makes an obvious presentation of himself. I can't hear what he's saying (iPod, you know), but he's eager, bordering on over-bearing. She's nice enough, smiles and nods her head, but it's only courtesy.

Today, he couldn't get near her. No open seat, not even a direct sight line. He was clearly perturbed as he barged his way into my bank of seats, lips set in a firm line. He obviously snapped open his Wall Street Journal, eyes darting around, defiant. I stared across at him--from behind my sunglasses--poker-faced, but amused. His paper was open, but he wasn't reading. He was scanning the windows, hoping to find her in a reflection. The rising color in his cheeks gave away his failure and distress.

I continued my surreptitious surveillance, forgoing a quick nap for the drama unfolding before me, fixed by this pure human interaction on a subtle, but unmistakable, scale.

He's only on board for two stops, but, his lucky day, a couple folks disembarked one stop into his journey, opening up seats nearer his intended. Bouyed by this development, he leaned forward, probing for eye contact. Her gaze remained rooted on the lines before her, however, and he slumped back in resignation.

She seemed to feel his attention on her and slyly glanced his direction a couple times, apparently relieved to miss his stare. Just as quickly, she returned to her book. She shifted toward the side of the car and showed him only her shoulder.

At his stop, he stood abruptly, not caring he whacked me on the knee with his backpack. He worked his way purposefully into the aisle, all overt movement. He searched her as he departed, pleaded for a simple smile.

I watched the scene unfold intently. She never looked up, never flinched, until he was gone. At which point she raised her head, fixed me with a stone glare and said,

"What the fuck are you staring at?"

I shifted toward the side of the car and showed her only my shoulder.