Young dude first in line starts stomping. All that hear our thunder, Morgan fraternity bullshit: a hard two on the blue Converse, a single hop onto the laceless orange, long slide, short slide, pivot, repeat.
I watch this kid, hands cupped inches from his mouth, fingers zigzagging back and forth, rhythmically blowing hot spitty breaths onto cold fingers. I laugh. Not loud, but still guttural enough to catch the eye of the woman, tall, too pretty to be race-walking to the train station so early in the morning. What a college education gets you I want to say as she sprints by, spicy Obsession putting me off guard, making me suddenly warm when I should be cold. But I don’t. Instead, I stare at her back, the Burberry trench, its tartan print soon lost among Penn Station masses. Then back again at the kid, no longer stomping, now softly, quietly reciting page after greasy, dog-eared page of Cornel’s latest diatribe, his breaths coming in short, misty puffs.
“Cold,” I say, and give a small nod. Hazel eyes smile back, linger then cut to the bulge in my coat pocket. Maybe two, perhaps three fingers of leather protrude, no more. Still what he sees is enough to turn hazel eyes alfalfa and those same alfalfa eyes to slits. I try to stuff my own hands covered in Martex, the same space age shit used to keep astronauts’ fingers from snapping off, into my pockets, but they don’t fit.
“This is bad, man,” he says between short, swift huffs. His hands, ashy with cold, are gray like old meat.
“You ain’t never lied,” I say, lying, a blast of cold slapping me hard across the face. I turn away from him, his chapped hands, his lips now twisted into a questioning bow, toward the ever graying bloom of exhaust clouding early morning traffic. It’s a slight maneuver, one meant to shield me from the wind’s unrelenting whip, but one which also works to free me from the sight of the tear slowly rolling down young dude’s ashen cheek, a tear I refuse to acknowledge as I shove the spare gloves deep down and out of sight.
Moustapha, our shuttle driver–the pig, the devil dog, our divine monster, a nice enough sorta piss ant, sits parked two blocks east, two traffic lights short of North Avenue and Calvert Street. Even from a distance I imagine I can make out the square of aluminum foil, now balled up, tucked between the shuttle’s dash and windshield, along with all that low gum, those gnashing, gnawing blunt teeth. Their up and down motion committed to chewing every bit of the fried egg sandwich Mrs. Moustapha has packed for breakfast before he will pick us up. Twenty lip smacking minutes he allows himself to chew, gum, chew, gum and then only at 7 am sharp will he pull curbside. Not one minute earlier. Moustapha, the dog, the swine, a guy I never give a second good thought to in non-winter months.
“Moustapha? Moustapha?!” I say, stepping back to allow the shuttle doors to slowly open. His eyes light up as he lifts his hand in salute, fierce hands when not saluting always found fingering his broad and furrowed brow.
“Not one gawd damn minute earlier, man? Not one?” I grumble under breath clearly visible as I mount the shuttle stairs. The smile, topped by pleading wet eyes, fades but only by a tooth or two.
“Mousy, Mou,” I laugh. The smile reappears, though slowly, along with flecks of egg yolk dotting his lower lip.
“The hawk truly barks today, my friend,” he says. Though nearly frozen, I can’t help but laugh, with him being a high country man and all.
“That’s right, smile,” I say. “You’re the man.”
“Chief magistrate of my village,” he smiles, pointing to what looks like a porter’s cap atop his head. I steal a sideways glance at the mountainous profile– the deep cavernous cheekbones, protruding forehead– and grimace. Through no fault of his own, Moustapha/Mousy reminds me of Leda Holiday, a patchouli drenched woman I once dealt with in a semi-serious way, and now often dream of drowning. Not wanting to go there, I lower my gaze, fixing it instead on the thick cord of veins lining his former chief magistrate hands. By his count, I am No. 37 this morning.
“Seven, lucky, yes?” he asks, placing a check mark on his clipboard. I nod, making my way down the aisle, toward the back seats.
“Fine, Moustapha,” I say, not want to make a thing of it, turning quickly in my tracks, then suddenly unsteady as I see the kid without gloves, lips no longer twisted, but a smile, sliding over, making room for me, Cornel West now hidden somewhere deep down and out of sight.