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Sun | October 01, 2006

L'Enfant dans le Metro

I crave small children. I long for them— their toodler proportions, that make them seem like different creatures entirely, like a species of small people. Their quick movements, so many rapid steps taken to traverse all of ten feet. Their chirpy voices, and the fact that they can be enveloped entirely in one’s arms. I wish only to hug one, and kiss it on the cheek—to suction for an instant the luminous infantile flesh.

I look for them at all places—even the somber reading room at the library. Mostly I see adults, and their sagging visages: aged, wrinkled, crumbling, mottled, motley. If I do see children, their parents or nannies are leading them along. One must always see at least one adult.

When I do see a child, I keep an eye on it. And on its surroundings, so that if some danger is creeping close I will be ready to protect it. Often one may make eye contact, and say hello! in that joyful tone used for babies. Sometimes they say hello back. Sometimes they simply stare- which is good as well, because those dilated black pupils are adorable. Sometimes they look away, sometimes they look through you.

Perhaps I crave cuteness. For that woman over there, her need for cuteness manifests itself in a Hawaiian punch-colored turtleneck and a ceramic flower barrette pinned askew above her forehead. I wear dusty sage corduroys, a navy business casual shirt, striped as fine as the wales on my cords, and a navy sweater cardigan. I am not wearing cute things, unless you count my bag, a flowered tote with buttons sewn all over it.

Last Sunday night I got on the A train at 125th Street and I spotted one, standing on the orange seat, next to his father. Of course I sat next to the child.
"Tha train dosa stop there," he gargled, pointing outside the window.
"Yes," I said.
"The train doan stop there!"
"That's right," I said, looking at the tracks.
"The train doan stop there."
"The train doesn't stop there?" I asked.
"The train doesn't stop there."
"That’s right," I said.

The train doesn't stop there! he said at every stop, and I encouraged him, saying yes every time, even though it might annoy the others. I was building something with him, with every exchange. What was the meaning, to him, of that utterance? He said it whether there was a train on the platform or not.

He turned to me, away from the window. He grasped at one of the buttons on my bag, a tote from Old Navy, the fabric already broken in when I bought it, and rendered even rattier from my own use. I had sewn buttons on it- buttons from a small red jar, that I had found in my mother's sewing kit- buttons from "ne shao de su ho." (when you were little) that "ne kuh ee deow diao (you can throw away)."

"No!" I gasped, and shortly thereafter purchased the bag with these buttons in mind.

Those tiny hands grasped at one of these now.
"That's a button," I said.
"Thasa buhuhn."
"That's a button."
"Thasa button."

Since I had sewn many buttons on the bag, the activity repeated itself naturally. He grasped each one in turn.

"Here's a button," I said, showing the snap on my cardigan. And then suddenly I had what I wanted. He was close, and when the train shook and he lost his balance, he fell into my arms. His father pulled him up immediately. Then we resumed the buttons lesson. He attempted to snap them but he was not quite coordinated, nor strong, enough; I snapped them for him. He liked the sound, was fascinated by the snapping. He waited for me to snap them shut and then he pulled them apart, with all his effort, as soon as I was done.

Jay Street. "I'm getting off here," I said to the father. And I said goodbye to the boy but there was no time to get one in return. I missed him immediately, wished that I could have kissed him, have taken him with me, to cuddle with like a teddy bear as I fell asleep.

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