I step onto the 8:16 in Hummerville and take my seat. A young guy takes the seat cattycorner to me. The guy across the aisle from him–right in front of me–starts saying “Michael…Michael!”
“Michael” looks up from his Post, spends a minute on recognition, and says, “Hey!”
They’re both about 20. Michael wears a green oxford shirt and jeans, white Nikes, a buzzcut.
The other guy I’ve noticed on the train before. It’s hard not to. He’s a wisp of a kid in Ramones-style pegged jeans, a black jacket regardless of the weather, a hint of a pompadour, and always mirrored Oakley shades–also regardless of the weather.
An artsy twerp with an attitude, I’d venture.
“Who you working for?” asks the artsy lad.
“Lionsgate. You?”
“A little documentary house,” says artsy kid.
He acts like how a lot of kids from Priusville, one stop up from Hummerville, seem to act: Ready to set the arts world on fire with skills gleaned from class trips to the Jacob Burns Center.
Little Roman Polanski and Michael discuss films across the aisle for a moment: can’t wait to see Tropic Thunder, yes, I heard about the “retard” protests, Pineapple Express wasn’t funny, Dark Knight was fantastic.
They don’t seem to be friends, just casual acquaintances.
They both have internships. It’s the artsy twerp’s last day at the little documentary house, in fact.
The conversation lulls.
“Commuting sucks, huh?” asks Little Roman.
“Oh, it’s awful,” concurs Michael.
Michael then goes back to his papers–he has not only the Post but the Daily News too–as Little Roman reads the manual to a camera resting on his lap.
Little Roman then puts the camera and manual away, and whips out a beat-up paperback of…c’mon, give us a guess…yup, Crime and Punishment.
He’s on page 279: “Well, I am indeed idle and depraved,” penned Dostoevsky. “But your sister has so many excellent qualities that even I could not but be impressed by them to some extent. But it all amounted to nothing, as I see now.”