from 2011. a writer's workshop exercise in observation.
When the automatic doors open, an intense gust of crisp autumn wind rushes in, carrying with it a synthetic potpourri of cigarette smoke, car exhaust, air freshener, cologne, and body odor. All the passengers are shaken then rapidly pushed and pulled in tiny motions with every dip or curve in the track. I feel nauseous. I want more privacy. This long haired hippy is sitting too close to me. He smells like weed. Wait- he got up to help someone who dropped something. He's not so bad. I cannot get on a train without thinking of my paternal grandfather. He adored reading all about them and constructing model trains in his retirement. I wonder if he ever rode the subway in New York City, the El in Chicago, or the Tube in London. Probably not. My mind tells me to be cautious or even suspicious in this situation because I grew up in the country where there was no city bus let along light rail train. My dad's voice rings in the back of my mind. His advice from our one and