A man sat down opposite me on the subway today. It’s cold outside, and we all stay bundled up while the train runs on the overhead line, doors opening to the icy morning air at each stop. Though the car starts out fairly empty, soon there are so many riders it’s impossible to see anything except the coats of the nearest straphangers.
But at the start of my commute, when this man first sits down, I can see him easily. He looks worn. Thin, lined face. One eye cloudy and mostly closed. His good eye is drifting sleepily closed every so often. His sneakers are frayed around the edges and a small messenger type bag, equally frayed, is slung diagonally from one shoulder across his chest, riding high under the opposite armpit, the strap really too short to carry the bag this way.
My imagination takes off without warning, inventing a story about this man. Long years of underpaid, bone-wearying labor, addiction and street fights, coming through the hard times to counsel others at risk with his hard-earned wisdom; nearing retirement age, determined to keep on.
Suddenly, in response to some itch invisible to me, he slips his bulky fleece gloves off and extends a finger to scratch one ankle just inside the top of his sneaker, and in so doing reveals a pair of startlingly beautiful, elegant hands. His fingers are long, slender, graceful; the skin unlined, unblemished, smooth. On each wrist he wears a loose silver link bracelet, clearly meant for a man’s hand, yet perfectly delicate alongside his hands – his unexpectedly lithe, beautiful hands.
I love beautiful surprises. There is nothing like being taken by surprise to remind me not to define people by first impressions, but to keep an open heart and an open mind.
The story in my head changes completely. Now he is a concert pianist.
Originally posted March 2013 under Metropolis © The Leadership Program tlpnyc.com
Photo by Paulette Mertes
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