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D:
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me:
There is nothing strange about two girls at Lorimer St., changing from the L to the G around 10pm, aghast at the pungent smell of urine and filth, and laughing and chatting about that, and walking deeper into the station in a futile attempt to escape it. But as I and Maria were doing just this, last night, I suddenly realized the entire subway stop was unimaginably quiet. I should add that it was quite full—I’d say there were more than the average amount of people waiting for any subway at any given time—yet every person was completely silent. As this unusual reality slowly came into focus, the music holding everyone’s attention quickly captivated mine as well. A man on violin and a younger woman on double bass were playing for us unsuspecting G-riders a surprise private show. Any New Yorker can tell you there are countless street performers who take their acts underground, and even the best of them hold only a small crowd for a short while. This scene was unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Men and women of all ages and races stood and stared at them. When a small child called out to her daddy, he put his finger to his lips and said “Shh.” A girl a few feet away from me was filming them. Something about them—their passion, their skill, their talent and chemistry together… the choice of some gorgeous Classical piece I only wish I was worldly enough to identify. They were musical hypnotists, binding us all under a spell of reverence and admiration.
They were located on the downtown side, and we on the uptown side were separated by the rails (with their rats and garbage and runnels of unknowable liquids.) As our train arrived I watched the filming woman’s face drop in disappointment, a mirror to my own face, not wanting to depart from pure beauty. The song coincidentally was finishing, and just as we were stepping into our Queens-bound vessel the strike of the last note burst our silence into applause, an eruption echoing through us and through the hollow of steel and concrete. I felt reluctant to take that train, tempted to wait for the next, to stay and listen, and I felt sure that this feeling was not mine alone. As the doors closed the new passengers craned their necks for one last glimpse at our performers, and those already riding looked around too in confused curiosity. And then the train buckled and we were rattling down the line to Greenpoint, off to keep plans and leave the beauty of beauty in its brevity.
