When the world cracked open and began exploding itself anew, I was on the A train to Brooklyn, distractedly clicking through my iPod. Bits of songs came and went in synch with the snippets of light that flashed outside the windows. All of my thoughts were simultaneously too far away and too close. I looked out the corner of my eyes in that New York City way. Across from me was a black chick rocking a geeky 80’s throwback look so expertly I wasn’t sure if it was conscious or not.  Every detail was either carefully thought out or she’d been wearing the same pigtails and too-big, thick framed glasses since grade school. Her bland black windbreaker and no-name jeans formed an anti-style cover too deep to parse.  The pristine, black patent leather Nikes were a little too deliberate however, and seemed to out her as a vintage cool collector.  I waited for her to do or say something that revealed her one way or another—but she neither pulled out an iPhone or acted outwardly autistic. Her enigma was further enhanced by the way she sat with her arms crossed and her mouth in a tight line. On Broadway Nassau a tall, impossibly skinny white girl got on and sat next to me, her long body folded up against the wall.  My immediate guess was confirmed as I saw that the white binder in her lap said “Fords” across the top. She was in entirely black and white—from the classic chucks on her feet to the grungy white cardigan and exquisitely messy jet black mane that crowned her chiseled, ivory white face.  Her beauty made her a Queen to whom all of A-list New York would step aside and bow to, but she was still too young and new to know this.  The effect of whatever small place she came from made her uncertain as to the extent of her powers.  I could feel her looking questioningly at me and then over at the black chick. She wanted our approval. I gave it to her—I felt the throwback chick do it as well.  There were no words or overt gestures, just a vibe that zig-zagged between us—unspoken but not unknown.  The black chick uncrossed her arms and the model leaned in my direction.  We made a great 3 girl crew:  her beauty, my brains and the streetwise wit of our homegirl sitting across from us—making plans and watching the door. Everything turned HD as I imagined the scene—the three of us running through explosions—the soundtrack made out of mixes we’d made on our laptops.  I could feel the possibilities expand around us as the train hurtled across the river.  I saw the words printed out before me—I saw the opening titles on the movie screen.  I saw the model’s face rising above the river as the black chick and I lit fireworks in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was right there for the taking—a new world revealed in a lightning strike. But instead of jumping up and high-fiving we each remained quietly slumped in our seats.  My iPod settled on Wide Open, by the Crystal Method.  I felt the power of the magic shuffle, taking me further down the path at last: “But you don’t get open, you just ARE open. Open like a child’s mind. But then you start talking.”

When the world cracked open and began exploding itself anew, I was on the A train to Brooklyn, distractedly clicking through my iPod. Bits of songs came and went in synch with the snippets of light that flashed outside the windows. All of my thoughts were simultaneously too far away and too close. I looked out the corner of my eyes in that New York City way. Across from me was a black chick rocking a geeky 80’s throwback look so expertly I wasn’t sure if it was conscious or not.  Every detail was either carefully thought out or she’d been wearing the same pigtails and too-big, thick framed glasses since grade school. Her bland black windbreaker and no-name jeans formed an anti-style cover too deep to parse.  The pristine, black patent leather Nikes were a little too deliberate however, and seemed to out her as a vintage cool collector. 

I waited for her to do or say something that revealed her one way or another—but she neither pulled out an iPhone or acted outwardly autistic. Her enigma was further enhanced by the way she sat with her arms crossed and her mouth in a tight line.

On Broadway Nassau a tall, impossibly skinny white girl got on and sat next to me, her long body folded up against the wall.  My immediate guess was confirmed as I saw that the white binder in her lap said “Fords” across the top.

She was in entirely black and white—from the classic chucks on her feet to the grungy white cardigan and exquisitely messy jet black mane that crowned her chiseled, ivory white face.  Her beauty made her a Queen to whom all of A-list New York would step aside and bow to, but she was still too young and new to know this.  The effect of whatever small place she came from made her uncertain as to the extent of her powers.  I could feel her looking questioningly at me and then over at the black chick. She wanted our approval.

I gave it to her—I felt the throwback chick do it as well.  There were no words or overt gestures, just a vibe that zig-zagged between us—unspoken but not unknown.  The black chick uncrossed her arms and the model leaned in my direction.  We made a great 3 girl crew:  her beauty, my brains and the streetwise wit of our homegirl sitting across from us—making plans and watching the door. Everything turned HD as I imagined the scene—the three of us running through explosions—the soundtrack made out of mixes we’d made on our laptops.  I could feel the possibilities expand around us as the train hurtled across the river.  I saw the words printed out before me—I saw the opening titles on the movie screen.  I saw the model’s face rising above the river as the black chick and I lit fireworks in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge.

It was right there for the taking—a new world revealed in a lightning strike. But instead of jumping up and high-fiving we each remained quietly slumped in our seats.  My iPod settled on Wide Open, by the Crystal Method.  I felt the power of the magic shuffle, taking me further down the path at last:

“But you don’t get open, you just ARE open.

Open like a child’s mind.

But then you start talking.”