Page 30 of Pining for You

We don’t get to go through the seven levels of the Candy Cane Forest or a sea of twirly, swirly gumdrops or even the Lincoln Tunnel like Buddy the Elf, but we do go through the underground subway station. There’s an old ticket booth festooned with garland and a few MTA employees wearing Santa hats, and I swear I catch snippets of a conversation about chestnut-roasting techniques between moments when the train’s rumble swells. Perfect little pinches of holiday making the everyday something special.

When we board our train, Diya and I stand, holding on to a shared pole while Cash and Izaac take seats in front of us.

There are people scrolling, a couple murmuring to each other in a language I can’t identify. I scan ads on digital screens while music leaks from the huge headphones on the guy next to me. He sways, eyes closed, but aside from that and the hum and screech of the train itself, the car is pretty much silent.

I stashed the camera when we got situated, pretty sure it wouldn’t be a welcome sight among the keep-to-yourself subway crowd. But then, at our third stop, three young guys jump on, all wearing reindeer antlers and matching Adidas tracksuits in red and green, plus some seriously enviable sneakers with blinking LEDs. They’re carrying a portable speaker, and now I have to start rolling.

“Yo, good afternoon!” one of them shouts as the doors close behind them and I scramble to grab the camera from my backpack. “We hope y’all are enjoying your holiday season. We’re not here to bother, just to entertain.”

Suddenly, a beat drops—a mashup of Christmas music and hip-hop classics—and I can’t tell the difference between the rumble of the train and the bass from the speaker. One of the dancers hits the floor and pulls a crazy spin move on his back. His jacket flares while another dancer grabs a vertical pole and swings around it with one leg sticking straight out. He just misses a passenger who looks briefly terrified, and then delighted.

Cash nudges me from his seat, grinning, and Diya is totally still, mesmerized. Izaac bobs his head along to the music. It has to be Fate that of all the cars on this train, it was ours that wound up hosting this cinematic display of human holiday spirit.

Then, out of nowhere, the train slows and the music cuts out just as the last guy freezes, holding himself upside down on only one hand, and applause erupts in pockets around the car as the doors slide open again.

As the digital announcer informs us of our next stop, the performers walk the length of the train car, complimenting people on their coats and hats and passing along holiday wishes, and I keep filming.

I can’t wait to tell them how good they were.

“That was… like, the coolest thing ever!” I say, fully aware that I sound like the least cool thing ever.

“Thank you, friend,” one of them says, and his smile is warm and gracious.

“Whoa, dope camera!” the other adds, pointing to the Sony.

“Thanks! It was my mom’s and then—” I stop myself from going on a ramble, and instead go with, “Well, anyway, merry—uh, happy holidays!”

But they linger in front of me, one of them holding out his hat, where he’s collected some dollars and coins.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I don’t have any cash, um…”

I pat my jacket as if it might suddenly produce coins, but they are obviously not holding out hope for that alchemy.

“Pssh. Figures,” one guys says, then shakes his head at me before he moves on.

I know I’m not the only one who didn’t contribute so I don’t understand why they didn’t seem to take issue with anyone else, but then Diya points to a sign I didn’t see before on the floor beside the portable speaker:

No Tipping, No Clicking!

If you’re photographing or filming the show, learn from Scrooge’s example and spread the wealth.

“Damn,” I mutter, but can’t argue. It’s festive but firm, and I respect that, even if it does put a damper on the moment. As we barrel toward our next stop, I make a mental note for the future and wonder what other rules I may need to learn for New York living.

When we surface to street level in under the thirty-eight minutes Izaac projected, we’re in Cobble Hill, the Brooklyn neighborhood that is apparently home to Eve’s bakery. It’s quaint and looks like the Brooklyn of my daydreams, with stoops and tree-lined streets, brick houses and brownstones with deep front yards, cozy-looking boutiques and cafés.

“Did you know that there are over twelve thousand species of plants and wildlife in Brooklyn Bridge Park alone?” Diya asks. “Really has impressive vegetation for an urban area.”

“I was just going to say impressive vegetation! You took the words right out of my mouth,” Cash says, nudging Diya.

“Wow, you really went hard on the NYC research today, huh?” I ask.

“Yeah, when did you become a big-city scholar?” Izaac chimes in.

“I like to know things.” She shrugs.

Last fall, not long after we met Diya, in that period before Michelle’s relapse when my mother seemed happier and freer, Naomi convinced the four of us to go with her to see some nineties country band at a local state fair. The rest of us mostly went for the snacks (i.e. baskets of fried Oreos), but Diya, on the other hand, spent the week leading up to the show poring over the band’s entire back catalog of music and knew every word when we got there. Naomi was delighted but we were all thoroughly confused.

“What? Knowing stuff makes an experience more enjoyable,” she’d said then, and turned back to the stage to continue her sing-along.