Straphanger Joe Harnesses the Power of Ganga

Ganga Power

It’s 7:34 a.m. and I just got on the F-train at Roosevelt and 74th. It’s the old orange and tan seater.

I take pole position just inside the door. A few people have to flow around and past me. Everyone is wet from the rain. I lean my umbrella on the ground against my backpack and the inside of my leg. I’m reading Yoga Beyond Belief, by Ganga White (yes, that’s really his name – he’s the guru of Sting – from LA, where else).

It’s crowded and my book is held close to my chest.

A young man gets on the train just as the doors close and stands next to me, white ear buds cranking music. It’s so loud I might as well have one of his ear buds in my ear. Every time I read a line from Ganga’s book (we’re on a first name basis now since both me and Sting are his students – even if I’m only one of his students vicariously through his book – did I mention Sting wrote the forward?) I lose my way. I hear the music of my young friend.

I try to read again but the words, like spiders, scatter. I take a surreptitious look to my right. The young man is Caucasian, maybe 18, with an iPod in his left hand. I can’t tell what he’s listening to but it has a lot of heavy guitar with no discernable melody.

I ask myself. Should I tell him to turn it down? Then respond with a small shake of my head. Just bear with it. How bad can it be? It’s probably just bothering me. I look around just in case. Nobody else seems to notice. They’ve got to hear it, though. We all can hear it. Can’t we?

I try to read again but Ganga’s prose just won’t open up to me. It’s the music. And, well, it’s my own voice pushing me too. Why don’t you tell him to turn his music down. It’s your civic duty. It’s your duty to Ganga. Your fellow passengers will thank you.

But what if he goes postal on me? What if he ignores me? What if…

I look at the young man to my right again. He’s just developing a 5 o’clock shadow. I wonder how many days he’s had to go without shaving to get it. Maybe he’s never really shaved. I tap him on the shoulder before I can stop myself. I get a slight adrenaline rush, the sympathetic fight or flight response starting to kick in.

He looks down at me.

“It’s the music, right” he says, his own voice at loud, I’m-blasting-my-iPod-and-can’t-tell-how-loud-I’m-speaking, level. “It’s too loud?”

“Would you mind turning it down a little?” I ask, smiling.

He nods and dials it down. I can still hear it but now I can’t tell which instruments are playing. I don’t hear any screaming lyrics either – not that I could tell what the lyrics were.

The young man looks straight ahead again and I look around. No one else seems to have noticed.

I hear more music. It’s coming from a woman sitting down on the bench to my left. She’s adjusting her ear buds with her finger, pushing them further in. I didn’t hear her music before because of the loud music coming from the Caucasian kid to my right. I look down at her and she looks up. She dials it down a little. Ah the power I have. Who knew?

I go back to Ganga. A drop of water lands on my page from the wet hood of the man in front of me. He’s not listening to any music. He’s just wet.

So it goes.