Diary entry 2: Bodi or Chad or Wax

Yesterday I spent most of my day on the train. I look forward to some parts of Mondays mainly because I'm usually commuting by foot and train and back again which lends itself to uninterrupted free thinking or reading time. The Fire Island revelers start earlier and earlier every year, likely directly proportionate to how terrible the winter was and yesterday it began. I was on a train with a group of five men and one woman who were laughing loud enough for me to hear through my headphones. If this were August and/or a Saturday night, I likely would never have even noticed them but it was Monday morning at 8 am; I think they were drunk already. Since my headphones were on I could only hear muffled conversation punctuated by muffled raucous laughter. Whenever I'm in close proximity to a group of people on the train, my people watching instinct kicks in and I mute my headphones to eavesdrop. I didn't glean anything terribly interesting apart from the knowledge that the group was comprised of surfers, only one of whom was actually from Long Island, a fact I learned as he mentioned having gone to my high school where he claimed to have "hooked up a lot" in the locker room. That didn't surprise me.

I tried to scrutinize them discreetly; they looked the surfer part. All tan and all of them were one shade of blond or another. Their skin made their ages indiscernible but if I was judging by their conversation, hobbies and clothing, I'd say they ranged from 20-45. I instantly invented a whole backstory, social hierarchy and sexual tension between the group's members. I also naturally assumed that at least one of them was named Bodi or Chad or Wax. If I knew anything at all about surfing, I'm certain I would have conjured some tired old metaphor. The only thing my brain could come up with was comparisons to "Point Break".

I want to watch this so bad right now.

I have no idea if surfing is even possible out here. Based on the odd surf shop in random strip malls, I assume so. But I have lived many years in this region and remain ignorant of the surf culture. It seems weird that anyone would travel here to surf.

When I got out of the train at my stop, which happens to be about a mile from the Great South Bay, I could smell the water. I smelled it the entire walk to the library. I thought about those harbingers of summertime and whether or not they'd catch any waves or if they would gleam the cube. Or whatever it is you do when you surf.

I had lunch at a pizza shop which I mention only because as I ate, I sat next to two moms and their rowdy kids, one of whom was named Silver John. I know this because his mother said loudly, many times "Siver John! Please don't do that!" That name plus his rowdy behavior make me think that kid is destined for a career in piracy.

After an utterly uneventful day at the library, during which two, TWO people had to be helped finding 15 or so alphabetically arranged DVDs due to "forgotten glasses", I headed back home on an otherwise empty train. When I got to the Jackson Heights subway stop, I saw a familiar face, my friend Nancy. She was waiting for a train on the same platform and we had a brief conversation part of which I record here:

"I was standing in line behind this slow ass woman who was bending over to pick up some thread on the floor."

"Uhm...what?" I then mimicked someone spotting a small piece of thread on the floor and getting overly excited.

"Yeah, I wanted to ask 'Are you an ACTUAL magpie, lady??"

These are the kinds of conversations I have with Nancy, particularly when we only have three minutes to talk.

That's really all that happened yesterday.