On the train this morning, a pretty girl sitting directly in front of me, with a large purse in her lap, and connected to it, an iPod. Earbuds to her pretty, little ears letting loose the music, the most appalling of all songs ever to hit the Top 40: The Beach Boys' "Kokomo."
We'll get there fast and then we'll take it slow. That's where we wanna go. Way down to Kokomo.Over and over again, she played it. Was I going insane, or was this really happening to me? I searched the expressions of nearby passengers to see if they were in on this. The woman sitting directly to the right of my Kokomo princess seemed to be in a deep, deep agony, too. She closed her eyes, slapped her left hand against her forehead, and dropped her face into her lap.
At least I wasn't alone.
Once the song had made it half-way through its horrendous sax solo, our girl would tap her iPod slyly, discreetly, as if we wouldn't notice, and start it all over again, right from the very beginning. Infernal faux-Caribbean soulless beat and then the wretched chorus, right from the top, the chorus, the chorus!
What is wrong with this girl? Is she sick? Is she a terrorist? Is she an audio reviewer? Can't be—she's using earbuds!
I looked at her. She looked at me. I looked away, quickly, quickly. She slid her iPod slowly into her purse, giving me a suspicious look, ever so slightly squinting her eyes. I can see that! I can see that! I can see you with your sick iPod, pretty girl. What is wrong with you?!
Around her neck, a thin gold necklace with a simple, round charm, and etched into the gold, a dolphin, and the word "Aruba."
