Today so far: 5:18 a.m. Pimp-slap alarm. 6:18 a.m. Spring from bed with gusto only matched by a fiddle, Charlie Daniels and some "Devil Went Down to Georgia." Effing humid. Put makeup on anyway. Compete in and win today’s edition of Scurry Up! You Fidna Miss the Train! Muse about how awesome life seems as neck dances to Miss Jill Scott’s “Golden.” Think about how the shuffle feature is the bomb when it follows right up with “Treat Her Like a Lady.” Try to contain self as the intro horns from “Living In America” dub over Ali-Ollie Woodson and The Temptations riffin’ “Treat ‘er like, treat ‘er like, treat ‘er like a layday.”
Begin to wonder why still staring at the train stop sign for North Philadelphia. Watch as shullbittin’ Septa operator does the bankhead shrug as he says all blasé, blasé, “Amtrak got issues. Don’t know how long we’ll be sittin’ here.” Become Florida Evans, “Damn, damn, damn!” Sit a spell gathering bearings.
E-mail boss about lateness; laugh at boss’s, “No Problem. Welcome to the Septa experience!” Watch as favorite elder and fellow passenger--Lady Tulpehocken Station (actual name unknown)--begins telling everybody what the travel alternatives are. Follow Lady Moses Tulpehocken Station as she exits train.
Effing humid.
Journey two, long stanktified above-ground blocks to go underground and commute via Broad Street Line. See people helping people determine their next stop, slink through the turnstiles, fan one another. Think about (and miss) New York--as a whole, but not the stench of Herald Square. Become acutely aware that someone in front might’ve forgotten their deodorant in the morning rush. Step back. Effing humid. Say silent thank you to God for gifting mother who drilled a sense of personal cleanliness and awareness. Get on subway. Immediately avert eyes from large, red-eyed African-looking man who insists upon smiling and staring. For, like, five damn minutes. Whip out magazine, re-apply earphones. Give Oha the don’t-even-think-about-it Brow as he leans forward still smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Lift magazine higher, feign deafness as Oha proclaims loud enough for Philadelphia-Camden-Delaware to hear that a woman of my girth (HIS WORDS Y’ALL) should not trouble herself with reading Women’s Health. Note that despite one’s own appreciation of the word “girth,” this fool needs to know we ain’t in Africa and that ain’t no compliment. Ignore, but begin to shift with discomfort. Be not amused when Nina Simone begins to sing “I Put a Spell On You.” Bad timing, iPod. Not cool.
Take note of closest exits and friendly faces, i.e., people who will help self in case Oha unleashes his repressed hunter. Spend seconds feeling bad for awful stereotyping. Look in Oha’s general direction noting shoes, clothes and other defining characteristics apart from face. Reneg feeling bad for awful stereotyping as Oha goes all LL Cool J and Licks. His. Lips.
Mother Mary, Jesus danglin’ from the cross send me an angel of mercy.
Make purposeful, sustained eye contact with random white guy closest to door who enlarges bright blue eyes and slowly shakes his head and mouths, “No.” Activate the “Chile, please! Um, No.” Brow, crack smile, bury face into article about best beauty products. Ponder remaining Sephora rewards points. Admit to self that girl on cover does look like she could benefit from a sammich. Get excited, recall that Sephora is seriously a block away from office. See Lady Moses Tulpehocken Station begin to gather her belongings.
Dash off subway, take steps two at a time upon hearing Oha’s (admittedly nice) baritone booming, “Miss! Exkooz me, Miss!” Make eye contact with Lady Claire Huxtable Moses Tulpehocken Station who smiles warmly, pats shoulder and says what my Mama already done said a million times, “Honey. Now you know you have to watch out for those kinds of men.” “Yes ma’am. Not tryin’ to be wife number 6.” We laugh full throaty laughs that ease into easy, mmmhmmming sighs.
Fall in step with Lady Claire Huxtable Moses Tulpehocken Station’s bevy of Camille Cosbys; exchange warm smiles, hellos but no names; listen to them talk about upcoming shows they’re going to see. Make mental note to continue Operation Make Mo’ Friends--Good Ones, Bump Acquaintances. Begin humming, Make new friends/but keep the old/one is silver/and the other gold ...
Recognize surroundings, applaud Philly for having the sense to build an underground tunnel from Broad Street all the way to 18th and Market. See the rush of exasperated Septa passengers flood the corridors. Think about Arrested Development’s version of “Everyday People.” Wonder about the chick tombout Rasha Don and Baba and whether she’s still challenging folk to a game of horseshoes. (A game of horseshoes!) Realize that bit was from “Tennessee.” Feel dress develop serious attachment to skin. Effing humid.
Smoothie stop. Oooh, they have watermelon, too. Smirk and realize you steady fillin' someone else's stereotype. Feeling good about the time check. Only 10 minutes late. Smile to self. Bum-ish character walkin' in other direction approaches, stops and then pans in my direction. Tells me I have lips and eyes from heaven. Great. Now I have to walk faster. Effing humid.
Arrive in building. Favorite security attendant jokes that I have the glow of love. Think that if love is sweating more than all the fat people combined on a Richard Simmons VHS, then it's head over heels ain't-no-mountain-high-enough to infinity and beyond love. See boss’s boss step onto same elevator. Think, “Great. We haven’t formally been introduced and I’m a hot mess and he’s going to think I’m always tardy which--for seriously the first time in my life--is so untrue.” Refuse to introduce self in elevator. Smell something vurry manly sexy. See future husband in the elevator all bespectacled and tall, with appropriately tailored pants and cognac briefcase. His posture and forward gaze announce he is impervious to elevator chit-chat. He’s bougie-rific. Make note of the 11th floor. Lawyer. Shake head at self, “Know you ain’t fidna marry Bryant Gumble.”
Rivulets of sweat re-enact a Mississippi Delta flood all the way down my back. See visions of antebellum self holdin' Shirley Caesar's mule. Catch glimpse of self in shiny elevator door reflection lookin’ like a hot, tawdry, unprofessional mess. Exit elevator. Greet boss’s boss. Make him chuckle about my awkward phone antics; note how easy-going and sincere he seems. Saunter into office, boot up computer, discover that the dry spell has passed and I must write.