spare change.

I think it’s because most of the time we don’t have anyone to talk to. We are constantly surrounded by so many people that at times it almost seems strange that we don’t know a single one of them. So I understand the need to speak up, to feel like you’re not just another face in the crowd. However I’d rather you not make that decision around me, in the morning, before I’ve even had my coffee.

"Is this the train that goes to Houston?" she asked. She was middle-aged and obviously from out of town and confused. I was leaning up against the pillar at 14th street waiting for the downtown local 1 train, seriously reading my book.

"Yeah," I said, figuring that was going to be enough. Contrary to popular belief us New Yorkers are fine with helping people. If we know what you’re talking about (and for the most part we do) we’ll take a moment out of our crazier-than-ever days to help you crazier-than-ever tourists.

But let me warn you, there’s a line.

"Whew," she said breathing a deep sigh of relief. "I was worried there for a minute that I was totally lost."

When people here insist on talking more than they should I feel like I have no other alternative than to politely ignore them. I understand the need to speak up, but I also understand the need for what little solitude we’re allowed in an otherwise insanely crowded place.

So I smiled, and nodded, and looked back at my book.

"What are you reading?" she asked. Sigh. Here we go. I know it’s an awful thing to feel annoyed when someone else is just making conversation with you, but give me a break. It’s early and I’m tired and I’ve just gotten to a particularly interesting part of chapter twenty and really don’t want to be bothered with your curiosity.

"Ummm," I said, debating on not saying anything at all. "America America?"

"Oh," she said and looked away disappointed. "Never heard of it."

That’s nice. I smiled and nodded and went back to reading.

"People are real happy about America today though let me tell you," she said, and I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me or herself or anyone that would listen. "Real happy. This book about anything to do with what’s happening today?" Her voice was hopeful that this time my answer wouldn’t disappoint her.

"Not really."

"Oh," she said looking down the track waiting for the train. "That's too bad."

What is it about people and what they care about and what they think about and what they feel compelled to say? After all this time in New York surrounded by all these I can’t even begin to explain it.

"Say, you got fifty cents so I can buy a coffee?" she asked.

And I don’t think I ever will.