Diary of a Gold Liner: October
Erin Douglass
October 10, westbound — There's hardly anyone on the train when I board this morning.
Ah, that's right. It's Columbus Day.
I sit down in an empty row, careful not to bang my belly on the low bar of the seatback in front of me.
Yes, I'm sticking out these days: a bona fide pregnant woman. No mystery here. No head-scratching, is-she-or-isn't-she flip-flopping. Even strangers — men! — are asking, "What is it?"
"What's what?" I say, puzzled.
They point at my belly.
"OH, right," I say, nodding my head. "Don't know. We're going to be surprised."
It's amazing how many people this seems to delight.
As the train shimmies through the morning dark, I think about Columbus.
How politically incorrect the guy has become these last few years. Sure, he was probably greedy and arrogant along with all those other early explorers. Sure, he jammed his flag into a land that he knew nothing about — and would change irrevocably.
But still, there was something worthy and fearless about him. He was willing — hungry even — to set out on the high seas with nothing but a compass, a few creaky ships and a motley crew of daredevils and desperates.
I have to say I admire that.
As I approach my own form of the unknown — parenting — I feel thrill mixed with dread. I am the explorer venturing forth with hope, prayers and a stack of onesies.
And, like those early explorers, I have the support of invested benefactors — grandparents, co-workers, Target — who can't wait to see what I return with.
October 14, evening — Lots of teens on the subway tonight, including a rowdy bunch sitting directly behind me.
We clamor off at Union Station. The teens form a pack, pushing each other and talking loudly.
Once I reach the Gold Line platform, there are more teens — posing, pointing, yelling at friends.
One ponytailed girl saunters by. Twelve or thirteen years old, she wears jeans and a tight, long-sleeved cotton shirt, the uniform of girls her age. Her backpack sports a patch that says "Vandals" — and about five multi-colored bows.
I watch her act out a conversation for a friend, gestures wide and confident.
Pre-teen girls fascinate me. They are a study in contrasts — gutsy and grown-up one moment, timid and bow-wearing the next. Some days their bodies clearly mortify them, other days they feel nothing but pride.
I don't remember many bows (or tight shirts, for that matter) in my own 12-year-old life. I was still into sports then — soccer, football and the all-time-recess-favorite, Capture the Flag — and had a correspondingly practical closet full of corduroys and T-shirts.
Yet as I watch these girls perform and communicate on the train's platform, I realize there's something familiar in the confidence they exude. It's the same hey-I'm-here-so-pay-attention that I used to bring to the soccer field.
The girl sees me studying her. I smile. She turns back to her friend and lets out a big laugh as the train slides into the station.
October 18, evening — I'm on the train, tired, listless, fogged as the scene outside.
In front of me, a man with tar-black hair wears a dark-blue fleece jacket. The inside of the collar, however, is bright, electric yellow.
On this gray, damp evening, such concentrated color is a balm. It makes me think of French's mustard. The neck of a toucan. The forsythia bush beside my childhood home. It's so pure, this fleecy yellow, it jolts me awake.
I look around for more.
On the doors of the train: two hardhat-yellow MTA stickers.
In my lap: the plastic, hollandaise-hued shopping bag I tote to work every day.
Behind a clutch of official flyers: a leftover announcement as sunny as a California poppy.
And then, when I get off the train and feel the mist on my face: the Post-It-yellow pillar marking my Gold Line stop.
October 24, evening — I look across the street as I'm walking to GEM tonight. There, pacing the sidewalk next to an SUV, is a kid holding an iron bar. Or is it a wrench?
Could you be more obvious? I think, watching the curly-haired, 14-year-oldish boy.
Marching up to the curb, I spot another guy. This one is on my side of the street, swaying slightly beneath the bus stop sign. Round as a Buddha, he wears a sweatshirt and a ski cap pulled low and tight.
A spotter?
I glance at the pacing boy, who's now partly hidden by the SUV. Then I look back at the Buddha. He's watching me.
I look away, just as a mom and her two kids race by me, laughing and chattering in Spanish.
I slowly cross the street, pretending to stare straight ahead. From the corner of my eye, I see The Buddha signaling. The pacer is still pacing.
I keep marching forward until both are out of sight. Ears straining for the tinkle of glass, I unlock GEM and wonder what I should do. Call 911? Nothing has happened — yet. Tell a neighbor? No one's around. Yell at the kid and then peel off in GEM?
I don't think so.
I stash my bags in the trunk. Then I inch out of my tight parking space and make a wide U-turn.
As I bounce up the first hill, I'm lost in thought. Why didn't I just confront those kids? Ask "Hey, what's going on?" in a quasi-innocent, yet probing way? Fear of reprisal? A sense of self protection now that I'm carrying a child?
What if one of those boys was my own? How nice if a stranger were to step in and perhaps help prevent something he'd later regret.
I vow to be courageous next time.
October 31, westbound — It's light when I leave this morning. What sweet relief! The recent 6 a.m. darkness has made getting up feel sneaky and unnatural.
Thanks to the windy weekend, the sky is clear and bright. Views of the San Gabriel Valley are long, sharp and impossible to ignore as I rattle down the hill to the train.
I wonder if we'll get any trick-or-treaters this first Halloween in our house. Is our neighborhood too steep, too free of streetlights and sidewalks to welcome the costumed hoards? There are certainly children about; I see them all the time at the park down the hill. But will their parents haul them to a more inviting candy paradise in some level, cushy suburb?
I hope not. We have bags of Target candy, carefully selected to reflect the tastes of our household: Reese's peanut butter cups, "Fun Size" Almond Joys and mini boxes of Junior Mints.
Lately people have been asking me about pregnancy cravings.
"So, been eating anything weird?" men and women, old and younger ask whenever they see me. It's often the first thing out of their mouths after congratulations.
This puzzles me. Are odd food urges the most interesting thing you can think of when quizzing a pregnant woman? I'd think there would be far more compelling questions: Have you dreamed of the child? How does s/he appear in your mind? Are your pets suspicious?
But no. People want to know about food. And they want something shocking — ice cream and pickles x 10.
Well, here's the truth of it. The only thing I've wanted badly is ice water. Lots of it.
Why is this strange? For years, I've been a hot bev gal. Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, broth — I could drink them day or night regardless of the weather.
But life is topsy-turvy as a pregnant person. What was once flat is now round. What once tucked away now protrudes. Tahini tastes too tangy. Fruit too sweet.
And now hot drinks rarely appeal, while ice water sounds divine.
Plugging along the final stretch of my crisp GEM commute, I start to hum Londonderry Air.
And to think about the sweating cup of ice water I'll soon have on my desk.