He stands near me, a tiny man in a puffy blue winter coat and a red woolen cap pulled down over his ears. I’ve seen him on the el before, but usually from farther away. I’ve seen him trying to start up conversations with people. But rarely does anyone engage beyond a forced smile, or a bothered exhale. I’ve never been close enough to hear him speak, so I’ve always assumed he’s asking nonsense questions or making inappropriate remarks. No one talks to him.

But today he is close by, leaning over the woman crammed into the seat next to me. She is stuffed into a too-tight linen suit and at 7:30 in the morning, it is already wrinkled. He stands over her as she turns the pages of her RedEye and bumps my arm with every turn. I have my cell phone out and I’m trying to check my email and I want to say something, like, “This is my dance space, and that is your dance space.” But I don’t. Instead I let out sighs of annoyance.

The little man leans over her and I can see now by his eyes that he is special, likely having Down Syndrome. He tilts toward her, trying to read her newspaper, trying to keep up with her as she folds each page over, even crouching to follow along. I am anxious for him, feeling that protective impulse, worrying that this woman will either be rude and shake the paper in his face, or fold it abruptly, stuff it in her lap, and sigh with annoyance (like my sighs of annoyance). But she is completely unaware.

A seat opens up at Belmont, a single facing me. I’m in one of the seats saved for the elderly or handicapped. I’m neither, but I really wanted to sit, so I did that “el-train-door-dance,” aligning myself as the train pulled into the station and scurrying to the seat. I plopped down and quickly pulled out my cell phone to keep from making eye contact with any elderly or handicapped person that might have followed me onto the train.

At Belmont, when the seat opens up and the little man takes it, I feel him turn toward me.

“Hullo,” he says.

I know right then I have the choice to either say something in return or keep my eyes on my cell phone. I could easily pretend to not hear him, could even bring the phone to my ear and fake a call. For some reason, I just look up. Maybe it’s because I self-righteously want to show the woman next to me how unreachable she is in her urban anonymity. Maybe I want to show all the other passengers cocooned in their morning commute how we should all be more charitable. Or maybe I just feel guilty about sitting in what probably should be this man’s seat. Whatever the reason, I say, “Hello.”

He speaks with a stutter and talks as if he’s got cotton inside his cheeks. But I can decipher his words and I’m surprised that I can make out his meaning. Likely on a different day, in a different mood, or forced to stand on the train, his words would have been unfathomable gabble.

“Are you having a good day?” he asks. I actually consider the question instead of giving some auto-reply.

“Sure. Yes. I am having a good day,” I say.

“Me too,” he says and smiles slightly. He doesn’t keep eye contact, just quick glances my way, like a bird that’s pecking in the grass but keeps lifting his head to see if any other birds are approaching.

“How old are you?” he asks.

I resist answering. I don’t want to tell him, don’t want to divide us into different decades, so I ask back, “How old do you think I am?”

He says, “Twenty?”

I shake my head no.

“Twenty-one?”

I shake my head no again.

“Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

We get to thirty before I realize he will keep on going, just adding one, unless I cut in. So I save myself seven questions and say, “Nope, I’m thirty-seven. How old are you?”

“Fifty-five.”

I say, “Fifty-five?”

And he says, “Yep. Fifty-five. April 7.”

And I say, “April 7?” I find I repeat most things back to him to make sure I’m hearing him right.

“Yep. April 7,” he stutters, “That’s my birthday. April 7.” Each stutter flutters his eyelids. I wonder, if he could control his blinking, could his stutter subside?

Next we talk about the weather.

“It’s cold in New York,” he says. “And it’s cold here.”

I say, “Yep, it’s winter, but it’ll be hot here again soon.”

He chuckles and says, “Hot. Bare arms. But it’s cold now.” 

“Yep,” I say.

He tells me Miami is hot, 90 degrees in Miami, and asks my age again.

“You asked me that, remember? I’m thirty-seven.”

He cuts me off, “Do you have a dollar?”

I say I don’t, and for once it’s true. I figure this is his real question and actually feel a little hurt, but he continues.

“I’m the baby.” He holds up one long thin finger. It’s surprising, someone so small having such long fingers.

“You’re the baby?” I repeat back.

“Yes. Youngest. Baby.”

I say, “I’m the baby too. I’m the youngest of five.” 

He is an uncle, he tells me many times. “I love my nieces. I love my nieces. They live in New York. Is it cold in New York?”

“Yes, I think so,” I say. “I have friends in New York …” He cuts me off again, this time to remind me that it’s cold in New York but hot in Florida.

“Yeah, like 90 degrees?” I say. And he smiles. We sit and smile at each other.

“How old are you? Are you married?” he launches in again.

“Yes. Thirty-seven. I’m thirty-seven and I’m married,” I say.

“I have a girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend?”

“She asked me first. We’re going to get married.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “When?”

“On my birthday. April 7. Yep, she asked me first. I love my girlfriend.”

“Where are you going to get married?”

“At my house.”

He goes on to name all of the people who will be there — or maybe he’s naming all the people who live with him, I can’t tell. When he gets to his parents he says, “My parents died.” And when I repeat it back to him, he closes his eyes and drops his head. I wait, unsure. And then he looks up and says, with full eyes brimming, “I’m crying.” Before I can think of how to respond he asks again, “How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven. And you’re fifty-five. You’ll be fifty-six on April 7 when you get married.”

He smiles and asks, “Do you like me?”

When I say yes, he reaches out and touches my arm, squeezes it. I irrationally imagine he wants to feel my muscles (maybe I just want him to feel my muscles), so I say, “You feeling my muscle?” flexing a bicep and letting him clasp it with his long fingers.

“Pretty good?” I ask. “Strong?”

And he smiles and says, “I love my girlfriend.” He thinks I’m flirting with him.

“Beakman.”

“Beakman?” I repeat.

“My last name.”

“Will your girlfriend take your last name?”

He laughs at what a silly thing I’ve said. “Of course!” But then he sits up straight, startled. When he stands up quickly I ask if this is his stop and he says, “No. Next one. One more.” But he doesn’t sit down.

“Oh, okay,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

He scurries around the standing passengers. As he moves away I see just how little he is, my size, almost. He pulls gloves from his coat pocket and I see they are yellow and black striped. His bumblebee hands look warm, warm enough for winter, wherever.

I presume he has already forgotten me, but just as the train is slowing into the next station, he looks back at me.

“You like me?”

I say, “Yes, I do.”

The train doors open and he smiles one last time and says to me, “Well, good for you!”

It dawns on me then that I’ve been the charity case this morning, receiving a little of his time and attention. Beakman saw me, deciphered my story, and brought me out of my self-induced commuter’s coma.

I smile and laugh at myself.

Yes, Beakman. Good for me.

kimberlee soo

‘b better in the morning’ by artist David Choe

I am 11 years old, sitting in my sister’s car. It is my “special day.” She is applying lipstick at a red light with the expertise of someone who now goes to college. The light turns green and she sticks the lipstick tube between her front teeth and reaches to change gears. Trina drives a stick shift. She is strong. I’m going to drive a stick shift.

“Here” she says, and hands me the tube. My heart tap dances. “It’s more orange-red,” she says without looking at me, “you’d be better in blue-red.”

Trina drives with the window down and doesn’t care if her Sun-In blonde hair whips her in the face because she knows she is beautiful. When I am done smearing this wondrous substance across my lips my hands are still shaking. Trina says, “Just throw it in my purse” and I do, slowly, so I can get a good look inside. I see her powder case and study the colors of her eye shadow, imagining them on my almond shaped eyes. I ask her what the plastic pink compact is and she says, “None of your business” and grabs her purse from my hand and tosses it in the back seat. As usual, I’ve pushed my luck.

At the next stoplight the truck in the lane to our left revs its engine. The front seat is packed with high school boys. I know this because they have the same Hilhi Spartan’s decal on their window that my older brother has on his clarinet case. They glance our way – Trina’s way – and call out, “Hey, you,” and I waffle between shrinking and desperately wanting to be seen ‘cause I’m wearing lipstick! Trina laughs with a wide opened mouth, head tossed back, braces finally off, killer laugh, and says, “Hey what?” And I think, BRILLIANT. She always knows just what to say!

The boy leans out the window, his hand resting on the mirror. A hand that looks wide enough to cover the entire surface of my face. I imagine this briefly and think of my lips leaving a fresh mark on the palm of that boy’s hand and my cheeks turn red. But I know he isn’t looking at me. It’s gonna take a lot more than orange-red lipstick.

The light has turned green and I am ready to have my sister back, but she has shifted slightly in their direction, both perfect breasts pointing their way. The radio is playing ROCK and I try desperately to move coolly, inhibited by the seatbelt Trina insists I wear. Her shoulder strap fits ideally between her perfect breasts and makes her t-shirt even tighter. My t-shirt is long and baggy and covers my butt when I stand, and I have pulled my shoulder strap down under my right arm so it won’t rub against my neck (or accentuate the flatlands of my chest). In this moment, with that truckload of boys peeping in, I would give anything to have Trina’s breasts. I sit, trying to be relaxed and tall with my black bangs cutting straight across my forehead, the sweat beginning to form at the hairline. I wish we were moving.

The boys are still trying to get Trina’s number and I want to scream, “HELLO, THIS IS MY SPECIAL DAY! I GET TO DO WHAT I WANT AND I DON’T HAVE TO DO CHORES AND NO ONE CAN TALK IN CODE OR TELL ME TO SCRAM …” but I don’t. Instead I fumble through the cassette tapes shoved in the glove compartment and then I study the floor. There are empty tab cans, sugar free gum wrappers, and a Shape magazine. Trina is healthy. She works out at a gym where the women walk around the locker room naked and the bulky shiny men wear yellow spandex.

Finally we drive. Trina’s car smells of cigarettes and Angelfire, recently sprayed. She tries to hide her smoking habit from me because she knows somewhere deep that I will do whatever she does (and because she isn’t convinced that she is a smoker).

“I think the guy in the middle was checkin’ you out.” she says.

I start giggling manically, “NO WAY!”

“Totally,” she says, ”with that lipstick you look at least 13.”

While I want to believe her, I can tell she is trying to be nice because she starts biting her lip like she does when she’s nervous or LYING or has to sing a solo at church.

We park at the mall and I take crazy long Trina-sized steps to keep up. It makes my calves hurt. But I can’t slow down; can’t let her see that I am struggling. Trina is COOL. And when I am with her, when I can keep up with her, I am COOL.

I haven’t been to the mall since my mom took me bra shopping earlier in the school year and insisted on coming into the fitting room with me. Trina asks me if I want an Orange Julius and I say, “nah, I’m not hungry …” when I’m actually starving but I don’t want to mess up my lipstick.

We run into Fred Meyer’s (which is the kind of place where I can spend a whole summer’s allowance. It’s like, K-Mart meets Payless Shoes meets the Dollar Store). Trina needs nylons. I go with but veer into the make-up aisle scanning the rows of pretty plastic until I see it. Covergirl. YEAH. I am sweating and eager and breathless but cannot find a lipstick called BLUE-RED. BUT I do find the eye shadow that Trina wears and I feel so victorious I actually consider slipping it into my pocket and walking. But I don’t.

In line behind my sister, I hold my breath wondering if she will stop me from making this dangerously adult purchase. The cashier rings me up and I pull out my sparkly pink plastic wallet with the little mirror in the flap and fake rhinestone closure and think, someday I’ll have a red leather purse and matching high heels and credit cards and no bangs. I make eye contact with Trina and she smiles for a half a second and then she is easily distracted by Luke & Laura on the cover of Soap Opera Digest.

My hand is sticky as I hold the bag, and I tell Trina I have to go to the bathroom. “Meet me in the food court. I need caffeine,” she says, and we head off in opposite directions.

I am so close.

Once situated in a stall on the far end away from the door I wipe my hands on my jeans near the spot I have been trying to work into a hole. I get my wallet/mirror and then pull out my first ever Covergirl eye shadow. I peel off the back, careful not to damage the instructions. There is a diagram and I can see that I am just three easy steps away from changing my life FOREVER.

Step one tells me to apply the lightest shade to my entire eyelid. I do this while trying to keep the soft sparkly blue from dusting my black eye brows. Niiiiiiiice. [EXHALE] On to step two. I take the skinniest side of the application wand and the darkest shade and drag it across my lash line. I do one eye and then the next. (And then I go back and forth and back and forth trying to make them look the same! Eh, close enough.)

I am ready for step three. I read. Apply contour shade to the eyelid crease.

I grip the application wand and steady my gaze in the mirror.

I bring the wand to my eye.

And then I freeze.

Only now do I see it.

I have no crease.

No crease in my eyelid for the contour shade.

No place for blending.

No place to create depth.

There is no step three for me.

I will never be beautiful.

Ever. NEVER EVER.

The stall feels crowded, the walls are pressing in and I am dizzy. I slide off the toilet seat onto the cool tiles and lift the lid, resting my chin on the edge. My head could fit in that toilet bowl, I think. I could stuff my head in there … But then I envision Trina, having finished her diet soda (and maybe small fries if she plans on going to the gym tonight) LOOKING for me, making her way toward the ladies room, FINDING ME, face down … I wipe off step one and two and hurry to the food court. I can’t tell if Trina is checking me for signs of her eye shadow because I am careful not to look at her.

We start walking back toward the exit, and Trina catches her breath and says, “Wow, check him out, he’s from the gym.” She exhales, and I see the red rise in her cheeks, and she starts biting her lip.

Then everything goes SLO-MO.

I see, coming toward us, this amazing boy, no, this amazing MAN, with faded jeans slightly frayed at the edges, Doc Martins squeaking as he approaches. He has gorgeous guitar player hands and I nearly gasp audibly when he reaches up and pushes his thick chocolaty hair (a la Rick Springfield) away from his mile long lashes. This guy is magic and I can’t feel my feet.

Trina’s hips sway with each step. The GUY slides his guitar player hands deep into his pockets. Trina flips her Sun-In blonde hair over her shoulder with a carelessness that I know she does not feel.

And then, when the GUY is inches away from Trina, I see him lift his chin slightly and smile a flawless “never even needed braces” smile UP at Trina. He is now at a complete stop, body turning in towards her, an opening line poised on his stubbled, recently licked, lips.

But she doesn’t slow down, doesn’t smile. I slam back to reality as we speed away from the magical guy. A few seconds later Trina says “Too bad.” I’m so confused. What flaw does she see in him that I can’t see?

We are almost to the car when she says again, “Too bad.”

I stay completely silent, hoping she will forget I am there and just keep talking.

“You’re lucky you’re short.”

I don’t answer because I am sure that she is making fun of me.

“You’ll be able to date anyone you want,” she says. “It totally SUCKS to be this tall.”

I am surprised. And DELIGHTED. I steal a glance at her. My beautiful sister. Then I notice for the first time EVER how she slumps her shoulders when she walks, like she’s apologizing for being WAY UP THERE.

And I think of the family picture we recently took. Trina is center, the edge of the shot just skimming the top of her head. I am in front of her, little and cut off at the knees. Neither of us FITS. I imagine someone pulling the camera back just slightly to accommodate both of us, so you can see ALL of me and ALL of Trina.

Trina notices me noticing her and winks.

“Yeah, they’re gonna love you.”

Maybe, I think. And then we walk. And I take me-sized steps all the way back to the car.

kimberlee soo