Stephen Mejias

But it’s not the cats that are killing me. It’s the commute.

I was standing
on the platform,
praying
for the D train.

The thing about the D train is that, from 36th Street in Brooklyn, it’ll take me all the way to 42nd Street and 5th Avenue at Bryant Park in Manhattan. No transfers, one long ride. Transfers take time and wear me out, and, with the D train, there’s even a slight possibility of finding a seat. Having a seat is good because it allows me to almost forget about my body and all of the other bodies around me — touching me — and it allows me to relax, somewhat. The ride on the D train from 36th Street in Brooklyn to 42nd Street and 5th Avenue in Manhattan takes about forty minutes. From Bryant Park, I can walk to work through dirty, refreshing, bus-exhaust air. Which I find better than anything there is to breathe in the subway.

I was standing on the platform, praying for the D train, when I realized how funny it was to pray for a D train. And, then, I thought of religion. And, then, I thought of Steve Earle. I remembered him saying:

I believe in God. I mean, I’m a recovering addict, so it’s sort of necessary to my survival. But my spirituality is kind of retarded. It’s like, I believe that there is a God and it ain’t me, and that’s as far as I’ve gotten.

I had read it somewhere recently, and it stuck with me. It led me to think of my own spirituality, and how it is similarly retarded. I wondered, then, about the gods that I believe in. I heard myself think:

I believe in the god of love, the god of beauty, the god of hope, and the god of the D train. Please D train, come to me. And please save a seat for me.

And, just like that — not that things are always this nice — a D train arrived, with a seat saved just for me.

I sat down and let myself melt a bit into the dirty, orange space. I felt my eyes close, I sighed, I forced my eyes to open, and I silently let loose: "Thank you, god."

Across from me, a black girl was reading The Scarlet Letter, a Polish woman was crocheting some yellow daffodils, and a mustached man was sitting with his hands folded in his lap, his eyes dull, his ears stuffed with sounds from his iPod.

In my mind, this entry was creating itself while someone sang:

Fast cars, fine ass, these things will pass,
And it won't get more profound.
Time is a game only children play well.
How can I love you if you won’t lie down?