Come the weekend, my phone automatically calculates the detour route to my work. It takes longer, but at least I won’t be fumbling and bumbling. All the same, I give myself an extra half hour to get there. The route says it will take forty-five minutes rather than thirty-five. Being someplace early opens the door to all sorts of possibilities. Manhattan is possibly the greatest city in the world, what’s so wrong with a little exploring? I don’t have to worry about leaving my dog in his kennel for too long, because Musette and I are on opposite schedules. She will be coming home shortly after I leave. A little time in the kennel never killed a dog.
The other night I dreamt that I got a job somewhere, and once I was hired, three somewhat Italian looking brothers wearing red button up shirts came out of the back to show me the works. How different from the place I work now, with the slew of various backgrounds swarming around me, creaking the wood floors of mutual New York experience.
Yesterday, when I pulled my phone out of my locker at the end of my shift, I found that my battery was dead. I had to get home without the help of my navigational apps, and I did it perfectly, having more time to enjoy the ride. At one point this guy stood up and started playing his guitar and singing. It sounded really good. People actually looked at him. They were smiling. He made a good amount of money. I was going to give him whatever change I had in my pocket but ended up feeling too ashamed once he came by. He didn’t go from person to person, he just darted around to the different dollars people were holding out for him.
That’s one of my favorite things about New York so far: the music of the underground. Even when you’re on the surface you can hear it rising from the grates. There are people with steel drums, singing, playing electrical instruments with amps. A lot of the commuters wear headphones, but I haven’t been wearing them as much as I used to, because the songs I’m hearing down below are once in a lifetime performances.