The construction workers on the 6 train heading uptown.
It was a packed train. By the looks of our faces, we’d all had a long day.
There were four of you. Some had Jamaican accents, some sounded as though from the boroughs. You wore jeans and sweatshirts, doorags and boots. You’d been working with your calloused hands all day. You probably just wanted to soak them in warm water.
You were joking and laughing, teasing one guy about his young age, talking about girls–something about one who wasn’t quite 18 yet–happy to be done working for the day.
The train pulled into 28th. People on the platform looked in dismay at how little room there was on board. Some tried to squeeze on.
“Watch the puppy!” one of you construction guys yelled.
Everyone looked down. Were we, in fact, trampling on a poor little puppy?
It was so crowded we couldn’t see our feet. Of course we weren’t trampling on a puppy! You were joking.
The train got to 33rd. A few people got off. Several more tried to get on.
“Watch the puppy!” one of you yelled. “There’s a puppy on the floor!”
We were in on the joke. Someone giggled.
42nd Street. Packed. Watch the puppy, we get it, we get it.
You guys were howling like Hef at a Friar’s roast. Watch the puppy!
Honestly, guys, it wasn’t that funny.
OK. Maybe it was.
Sincerely,
Trainjotting