The man on the Hawthorne platform who is “Never Cold.”

Sir. I’m sure you’ve noticed, it’s 75 and sunny these days–a far cry from the brutal winter we just escaped from. People are barbecuing, hiking, playing ball.

But you, you probably don’t notice the 50 degree hike in the temperature. It can be the coldiest, blusteriest, Noreasteryesque of days, yet there you are, on the train platform, wearing a dress shirt and unbuttoned sport jacket.

You say hello to your friends on the platform, who inevitably ask you if you’re not freezing your ass off.

“I’m never cold,” you say with a smug smile, then explain how you only have to walk from the parking lot to the train, then a short hike from Grand Central to your office. “I don’t need a coat.”

You remind me, Never Cold, of a guy I sort of knew in college. His name was Stefan and he did some Grateful Dead show on the campus radio station. Everyone knew Stefan by his nickname, simply “Shorts,” because he wore nothing else but shorts throughout the New England winter. His legs were nothing to write home about–not that anyone at URHigh did much writing home anyway.

Perhaps you and Shorts are related; cut from the same warm weather, breathable cloth.

I haven’t seen you, Never Cold, since it got way warm. Maybe you’re the opposite of a Snowbird (a Sunbird?), flying north to Albany, to Toronto, to the Yukon Territory, to extend winter a few more weeks. If you’re comfortable in just a sport jacket in the dead of a Westchester winter, do you strip down to a mere dress shirt in early spring? Just a t-shirt with your slacks by Memorial Day? Bare-chested for the summer?

Time will tell, and we shall see.

Curiously,

Trainjotting

[image: fashionation.wordpress.com]

A woman got on in White Plains this morning.

She wore a neat black and white checked suit, the three buttons on her jacket clasped.

She had straight brown hair with a touch of grey (Grateful Dead reference intended). It was clear that her eyes, not covered by dark glasses, did not work. She also had a black lab working dog in tow.

The dog led the woman to the aisle seat of a four-seater; the riders did their best to move their feet, their bags, their briefcases out of the way.

All eyes were on the woman, because you don’t see a blind person every day, you know you can stare without impunity, and seeing-eye dogs are one of the most fascinating things to watch.

The blind woman sipped a massive coffee with Andrew’s written across it. Her posture was impeccable, her manner almost dainty. Over time, her neighbors threw some polite questions her way. The dog was named Princess, she’s eight, and she’s been a working dog for most of her life. One man commented on how good the dog was about squeezing into a tiny space between her feet and the feet of the woman facing her in the four-seater.

“You should see the little ball she sleeps in at night,” said the blind woman.

The man across the aisle, gray hair, gray suit, eyeglasses stuck his collar, said he had a black lab too. What’s the name, asked the blind woman. Garcia, said the man — the dog is so laid back the man named him after Jerry Garcia, he explained.

“Another Dead-Head!” said the blind woman.

They discussed the Grateful Dead. The blind woman said she could always tell Jerry Garcia’s guitar playing, even when he was playing on other bands’ albums.

As we rolled into Grand Central, the woman extended her arm to allow her watch to peek out of her sleeve. What function could the watch possibly perform for a blind woman, I wondered. She lifted the glass face of the watch and fingered the digits. Braille!

The blind woman said she needed to get to a job interview on time. She and her neighbors lamented the chronic lateness of the morning train.  

As we crawled past 59th, the woman asked Garcia’s master for directions to the subway. He said he’d take her there himself. She said that wasn’t necessary, she just needed directions. He insisted on escorting her.

She said thank you.

“Not a problem,” said Garcia. “Not. A. Problem.”

The blind woman affixed a clip to the back of her hair and smoothed out of her suit. The train eased to a stop. Princess stood up and plotted their exit.

[image: takegreatpictures.com]