On the subway this morning a man got on with a rolly-suitcas-ey file box contraption. It was wide open with manila folders stuffed inside. On top was a Canada Dry seltzer bottle he'd filled with orange juice, to save money I assumed. Next to him, a few seats down, two women took notice. They looked at the rolly-suitcas-ey file box contraption. Then they looked at each other and snickered. Then they looked back at him and judged him all up and down. I looked back at the man. He'd pulled out a very small HP computer and opened it. He heaved an exhausted sign and began to type, completely unaware of the audience he'd attracted. Next to me, another woman took a picture of the rolly-suitcas-ey file box contraption on her iPhone. I looked at her face and she was snickering too. The doors opened and she left with an amused grin across her face. No doubt Facebook would feature this man's rolly-suitcas-ey file box contraption as soon as she hit pavement.
I thought, what does it take to be accepted in this world of ours? How hard do I have to work when an overworked man in a crumpled business suit can't even get a break. It's not like he's some slacker. He's just overwhelmed and probably can't afford a new rolly-suitcas-ey file box contraption that's the correct size. He's at least working for a living! What's so damn funny?
There is nothing like busting ass just trying to get by on a job you hate. It's a crisis in our country, I believe. All of us slaving away on other people's dreams and visions, not our own. When I tried selling real estate for a living, I remember having days where I was walking down the hot summer streets of New York praying to find money on the street. It's not that I wasn't working, I was. I was just working at the wrong thing. I found ways to survive on five bucks a day once. That's one of the amazing things about living in New York City. You can get away with being broke sometimes and not starve.
Artists always have to bust ass. They have other jobs to support themselves while they pursue careers in the arts. The good thing about that is when you're an artist at least you have something to look forward to. Something to break up the monotony. At least you can say you're working five jobs temporarily until something happens with your art. You get through your days as a barista, bar tending, filing clerk, receptionist, and a party clown with your head held high because you no no matter what anyone thinks of you it doesn't matter. Because you have something else.
I wondered about the man and his rolly-suitcas-ey file box contraption. Did he have something else? An artist's life that the judgemental women on the train didn't know about? Could I tell? I looked closer at his face. He was concentrating hard. I imagined he was writing a novel in his little Hewlett Packard. That in between his appointments he would jump on the train and work on his dream. It make me feel better thinking about this. But then I looked at his face again. There was no joy. If it was art, there would be joy. Zero. Zilch. It was probably math. I hate math.
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