I wrote this for a creative writing class, but it feels like the correct blend of observational weirdness to share.
The station rumbles past outside the window across from me, commuters beginning to blur as the train picks up speed. Numbly, I realize I have once again stopped paying attention to my audiobook, so I hit the 15-second rewind button a few times. I stare at the styrofoam cup in my lap, aware that I have let my tea get cold and missed the narrow optimal temperature window to drink it. The cup reads “Jo” — a name given to me by my mother, though to her I am Daisy Jo. I like hearing the barista call it out at a coffee shop. It reminds me that even in New York, I still bear the evidence of my mother’s Southern belief that all women with two first names should be called just that, furious when my father began just calling me “Jo” because I was far too boyish for a name like Daisy. I swirl the cup in circles, feeling the lukewarm tea slosh around the edges. I can almost see the tiny whirlpool happening inside the cup and am tempted to peel the plastic lid off and look, but I am jolted sideways as the train slows to a stop at Queensboro Plaza.
People bustle on and off, and I watch them move like ants on a sticky, sweet countertop. Each one that passes has the same air about them: gray and dull yet somehow stressed, frantic. A harried businessman late for a meeting, a tired mother just trying to get her kids to school, a homeless man without a destination. The people of what is supposed to be the most glamorous city in the world are simply drab, not at all like the New York I was promised, the one I left my whole life to experience. I have again stopped listening to the book. I rewind once more to the same spot and do my best to follow it, to ignore the growing rumbling at my feet and the woman who sits down across from me.
Her curly graying hair blocks my view of the quickly disappearing station through the window behind her. She is wearing at least four shawls, all brightly colored and patterned, most with some sort of fringe on the ends. A pair of giant, robin’s-egg-blue glasses are perched high on her nose, and she smiles a soft smile to nobody in particular, folding her hands over the bag in her lap. I watch her for a second, mesmerized by her vividness. Where the people around her move deliriously, devoid of color, she is color itself, light pooling and refracting around her. As I take her in, my eyes laser onto her bag and stop.
The handbag is boxy, made of the kind of sturdy leather originally imagined for saddles. It has gleaming brass hardware, with a tiny horse and carriage logo etched on the clasp, a little lock dangling underneath. The bag’s most stunning quality, however, is its cardinal color.
But of course, my mother would know it wasn’t just “cardinal” but very specifically “rouge de coeur.” A less discerning eye, one that wasn’t raised by Moira Louise MacIntosh, might dismiss this as another purse of a rando on the subway, but she raised me to recognize an Hermès silhouette from a hundred yards.
My brain races: Who is this woman? Why does she have such a legendary purse? Where did she get it? I wonder if she stole it, the thought echoing in mother’s voice, something she’d say in hushed tones as she ushered me off the train. I watch the woman, questions running through my head like a chyron until I look back at her face. We make eye contact, and I realize she’s been watching me watch her. Her smile hasn’t faded. I quickly look back at the cup in my lap, feeling her eyes on me. I’ve lost my place in the audiobook again. I give up on understanding the section of the book I’ve now heard three times and settle in and try to catch up to the story.
Minutes later, we arrive at Union Square and I grab my bag, an unremarkable work tote I bought when I first moved to the city. On the way off the train, I sneak another glance at the woman with the bag. She’s still not reading or listening to anything, just smiling a satisfied little smile straight ahead. Weird.
That evening, I Google the bag. Red Kelly Hermès. It’s truly a beautiful piece, handcrafted and vintage, timelessly elegant. That probably explains the price tag. I aimlessly scroll through designer resale websites, imagining my own life as someone who can afford an Hermès bag. I work on one of the top floors of my building, maybe in an office with a real window, and I have an assistant who answers my emails. I spend my days talking to the biggest fashion houses in the world, curating art exhibits with fashion at their center. I am living the New York dream I was supposed to have, the one I’ve wanted since my mother took me to an Alexander McQueen exhibit at the MET, lighting within me a fire for the art of fashion, a hunger to wear and touch and look at all the most beautiful pieces of clothing. Instead, I slog through the work week in clothes I don’t like with people I don’t know in a city that doesn’t care that I exist.
The next morning I wake up with a tight, loud crick in my neck. I drag myself through the motions of getting ready, pulling on the only outfit that is a guaranteed pick-me-up – my most treasured shirt: a vintage men’s button-up made of the softest cotton I’ve ever felt, paired with a pair of trousers I had tailored as a birthday gift to myself last spring. Stuffing my laptop into my tote, I shove a bagel in my mouth and race to the subway. The train is packed again, and I just barely manage to find a seat. I put in my earbuds and turn on my audiobook, which at this point I’m not sure I like or understand. This morning, I ignore the train occupants, opting to try my best to make it through my book. A woman is chasing a murderer through the streets of 1970s Philadelphia, and just as she’s catching up to the guy, Queensboro Plaza Station rolls into view.
As people shuffle around, politely sidestepping each other and rushing to work, the passengers turn over. Someone sits next to me but I don’t look at them, struggling to keep the book at the front of my mind. As the woman in my book finds another dead body in a stairwell, a hand reaches out and pets the cuff of my shirt. I glance down at my wrist and see a beautifully manicured hand, a giant snake ring on its pointer finger. Looking to my right to see who the hand belongs to, I find the same woman from yesterday with the same little smile on her face.
“Alumo,” she says thoughtfully, “only milled in Switzerland.”
I don’t know what Alumo is, or what it means, but clearly, it’s significant to her. She withdraws her hand, placing it neatly in her lap, on which is perched the red Kelly bag, framed by her many colorful shawls, an assortment not dissimilar from the day before. I find myself delighted to see this unknown woman again. Something about her comforts me. Maybe it awakens my inherited passion for obscure, expensive bags (thank you Moira Louise), or maybe there’s something kind about her face. Whatever it is, I feel safe in her presence. “It’s my favorite shirt,” I say. “My mother found it in a by-the-kilo store in Paris.” It was the only time my mother had ever left the country, the only souvenir she’d ever brought me from a trip. This shirt is my favorite thing I own. With that, the conversation is over, but I find myself longing to talk to her more, or even to sit with her in silence on the morning commute again.
I think about the woman for the whole workday and on my lunch break, I Google “Alumo.” It’s a Swiss cotton manufacturer, the material for all the fanciest men’s shirts on Savile Row. I check the tag on the inside of my shirt, and sure enough, the fabric is Alumo. I am fascinated by how she could know the material’s origin from a single touch of my sleeve, enthralled by her red Kelly Hermès bag, captivated by her sheer vibrancy. I wonder what kind of stuff she keeps in that bag. More shawls? A Mont Blanc pen? A million dollars? Or maybe it’s just filled to the brim with cereal in case she gets peckish later. In any case, I find myself unable to stop imagining lives for this woman, creating worlds and scenarios in my head for her. I imagine her as a Dutch heiress living on the Upper East Side, languishing in her penthouse apartment with wall-to-wall bookshelves, bronze statues of dogs, and five bathrooms. Or maybe she’s a housekeeper who took a bag she found tucked in a corner, hoping its owner wouldn’t miss it. Perhaps she’s an investment banker who trades in the millions from under her layers of shawls and skirts. Maybe she just gets cold and her coat isn’t cutting it, and she’s exactly like the rest of us. Maybe she inherited the bag.
The next morning as I’m making myself a cup of tea, I resolve that if, once again, she’s on my train, I’ll try to start the conversation, ask her about the bag. As I walk to the station, I plan my questions. Where is she from? Does she have children? Where did she get the bag? Eagerly, I board the train. I’ve worn the most colorful sweater in my closet so she’ll see that I’m like her, that I too understand the magic of a red Kelly. The train pulls up to Queensboro Plaza. The throng of people shifts again. I crane my neck, looking for a flash of red leather or a patterned shawl. As the subway begins to move, I spy her, standing towards the back of the train, smiling through her robin’s-egg glasses at the car’s occupants. I hop out of my seat and make my way down to her, anything but graceful as I squeeze through disgruntled passengers and brace against the thunderous shaking of the car.
I approach her and she smiles at me, almost imperceptibly wider than before, like she was waiting for me to come talk to her. Awkwardly, I stick my hand out to shake.
“Hi,” I say, “I’m Jo. Well, Daisy Jo, but just Jo is fine.” She shakes my hand. Her grip is firm, and I notice how perfectly manicured her hands are. No nail polish, but well-kept cuticles Moira Louise would approve of. “Is that a red Kelly?” I ask.
Her soft smile breaks into a grin. “It is, good eye.” Her voice is like cinnamon. Homey and warm but with a husky spice. “I’m Lynn. It’s nice to meet you, Jo.”
“Where did you get it?” I ask, trying not to sound too desperate to know.
She looks at the bag for a second, as if considering where it had come from, as though someone could forget where they got a bag like that. “It was a gift from an old friend of mine. I’ve had it for years.” I wonder who the hell would give a fifteen-thousand-dollar bag as a gift.
“Good friend,” I say.
“Yes, he was,” she replied, her expression becoming a little wistful.
Unsure of how to reply, I ask after a pause, “Where are you headed?”
She eyes me a little as if deciding whether I’m safe to tell. “I’m off to work, in the financial district. You?”
“Work as well, by Union Square.” As if I’ve spoken it into existence, we pull up to the Union Square Station. I look out at the station and start to leave the train. “Bye, Lynn. Nice to meet you,” I say over my shoulder.
“Goodbye, Jo.” She says with a wave.
That day, I look up a bunch of the office buildings in the financial district, trying to decipher where she might work. I, of course, cannot find anything, but I hope she is on the train the next morning for me to talk to. Again that evening, I Google the Kelly. It looks the same as it did on my last search, and I swear hers looks more regal in person. I wonder if it’s real. I mean, a Kelly isn’t well-known enough to be a profitable fake bag, but it isn’t out of the question. That night, I dream that I am in the carriage pulled by the Hermès horse, galloping into the sunset.
The next morning, I once again don an outfit so colorful it would make the cast of “Yo, Gabba Gabba!” proud. I hope with all my heart that Lynn is there. I have more to ask her. I want to know if she has any kids or a spouse, where she lives, and where she’s from. My fascination with her bewilders me: why am I so drawn to her and what am I trying to find out? All I know is that I want to be her. I want to be the eccentric woman on the train who has nothing to do but smile, who owns expensive handbags and exudes confidence.
When the train pulls up to Queensboro, Lynn is the last one on the train. Instead of many colorful shawls, she wears a giant emerald green knitted poncho. She catches my eye, waves, and comes to stand in front of where I’m sitting. I get up to offer her my seat, but she waves me off. “If I sit, I’m never going to stand back up. Best to stay on my feet.” I laugh, prepared to ask her a question, but she gets there first. “Who taught you to recognize a Kelly?”
“My mom. She’s really into fashion, and we used to watch all the runway shows of the big houses when I was growing up.”
Lynn smiles. “A valuable education for a New Yorker.”
“I grew up in Arizona, actually, but my mom and I always dreamed about living in the city,” I reply with the sheepish air of a non-native.
“Well, she clearly thinks like one of us,” Lynn says with a wink.
I ask, “Are you from here?”
“Yes. I grew up in Manhattan, but I live in Queens now.”
“Really? Which do you like more?”
She thinks for a second as if deciding in that very moment, as though the answer could change from second to second. “Manhattan will always be home, but Queens is where my heart lives.”
I don’t have a clue what that means, but I smile nonetheless. We talk like this for another couple of minutes until Union Square arrives, and I leave, eager to see her again.
Every morning for a month, Lynn and I talk on our short commute overlap. I learn that she has two sons, both in college, and had a husband who died many years ago. She’s currently seeing a jazz pianist who she met at a showing at the MET. In all our conversations, I can’t quite figure out what she does for work. When I ask, she’ll waffle. Always variations of “Oh, this and that” or “It changes day to day.” My running theory is that she’s either in the mob or a freelancer. They are equally probable.
One morning, icy and gray as New York Decembers are wont to be, Lynn is already on the train when I arrive. Rather than her usual colorful garb, she is wearing shades of brown. Today, she has two bags. The red Kelly I have always loved, and a black tote, not dissimilar to my own, although undoubtedly more luxurious. She is carrying two coffee cups and hands me one. “It’s black tea. I think that’s what you drink.”
I smile, a soft one I learned from watching her. “It is, thank you. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”
Lynn looks at me a little sad. “Just thought I’d pay it forward. Do something nice for someone else for me, won’t you?” I wonder what’s going on with her, but the train stops, and she gets up to leave.
“We’re only at 34th,” I say. It occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen her get off the train, only on.
She smiles at me as she leaves the train. “Have a good day, Daisy Jo.” She’s never called me that since I first introduced myself. I’m surprised she remembers that that’s my full name. As the doors swing shut behind her and the platform slowly rolls away, I look back at her chair. The red Kelly is sitting on her seat, left but not forgotten. I look at the bag. Somehow, I know I’m never going to see Lynn again, and that the bag is meant for me. I pick it up. The leather is smooth and warm, and when I open the bag, there’s nothing inside. I slip the bag onto my arm, where it sits perfectly in the crook of my elbow. I sit down in Lynn’s seat and pop in my earbuds. I smile at nothing in particular, pull out my phone, and open the audiobook. I start it from the beginning.