Made on the 1

“This song is for the white lady with the sunglasses.” 

Briefly I considered whether the busker who’d boarded at 96th Street was crooning about me. Plenty of other women had sunglasses—it was sunny on the street—but I couldn’t rule it out.

“This song is for the white lady with the sunglasses and the green slippers.” 

Ah, see: I had on leather flip flops, and although they were a pale jade, he couldn’t possibly see them across the crowded car. 

I held onto the bar above my head for balance and turned slightly to glance at him again. He was squat and graying and about my age, and he’d lugged an amplifier onto the 1 Train along with his electric guitar, which he didn’t play so much as strum now and then. He grinned at me through the bodies of a half dozen riders.

“This one is for the white lady with the sunglasses and the green slippers who looks like Martha Stewart.” 

I get that sometimes.

I looked around the car. Summer interns with fresh haircuts and pressed shirts smiled into their chests. A red-capped little boy whispered to his sister while peering at me sideways. An older woman shrugged playfully as if to say “go with it.” The entire car, thick with riders, had made me.

I blushed into my sleeve as he put new words to a tune I recognized though couldn’t name: “This song is for the white woman with the sunglasses and the college brain.” 

My tote read “Columbia”.

He finished with a flourish and just below 60th Street told his audience, “I’ll kiss that white woman if anyone can tell me who wrote this song.”

I could feel the blood rising to my face. He sang with relish: “One love, one heart. Let’s get together and feel all right.” 

Oh, god.

“Marley!” A dozen people hollered.

I’m a tentative subway rider. It embarrasses me to admit that despite my longtime proximity to the Big Apple, I don’t have a comfortable relationship with the New York underground. Even when I was young and a regular commuter, I walked to my office or took cabs. Now, on those rare occasions I ride the train, I swivel the stone of my wedding ring to the palm side of my hand and wedge my purse under my armpit as though I’m carrying a million dollars. I try to look casual, like I ride the subway every day, but from the time I descend those grimy steps to the platform till the moment I board my safe New Jersey commuter bus at Port Authority, my aim is be invisible. 

Which is why, on this particular day, when an amplifier ensures that I am the focal point of a subway car jammed with passengers, it’s odd that I’m not mortified. It occurs to me I am actually a little pleased. It occurs to me that maybe I’ve been a little too successful at sliding into the scenery.

His guitar quiet, the little man sidestepped through the car, collecting his receipts. Very soon he was beside me with a shy expression. As he moved past, I tapped my face, and he placed a gentle peck on my cheek.