D O G P O E T

D.C., redux

King Street, Pentagon, Pentagon City, Metro, L’Enfant Plaza. Riding public transit late at night is like sitting and breathing in an Edward Hopper painting. The cars slide into the night. Couples lean into each other; women close their eyes and lay their heads on the men’s shoulders. The men stare ahead, eyes unfocused, their nights behind them, their beds waiting. There’s nothing to read but the Metro map and the sports section crumpled underfoot. Fluorescent-lit orange upholstered cars that fill as we glide into the city, as we go underground. People murmur around me and as a train passes us in the other direction I catch glimpses of the riders contained within. There’s something about subways and solitude. Those moments held quick in celluloid; moments filled with cinematic meaning: Matt Damon as a troubled genius staring out at the Boston landscape; his train clacking and whizzing past rusted warehouses and empty shop yards. His solitude reinforces mine; his interior conflict mirrors mine. His Elliot Smith soundtrack plays in my head; be forever with my poison arms around you…so glad to meet you, Angeles. Or maybe the movies just give it more meaning than it should have. It’s just a man staring out at the passing world; his reflection flashing back at him. It’s just a way out, briefy, from the places that trouble him. It’s an escape from his father’s carpeted, well-meaning townhouse. From safety, into mystery. Take him from the man he should be, bring him to the man he is, flawed and afraid and hopeful, always hopeful. Bring him someplace new, somewhere else. The subway brings him there. The trains shudder in the tunnel’s night. Tom Cruise and Rebecca DeMornay clutch each other as the lights flicker overhead. Just another girl on the IRT.

I step onto the escalator at Dupont Circle; it stretches far up into the night, a Dr. Seuss escalator, longer than seems possible. Ahead of me a man turns, squints, waves at me questioningly. I smile, I wave back. We cover the steps between us. Jimbo is adorable, even without his beard. He takes us to Cosi, a coffee shop with an actual hostess station, where we’re seated under some blindingly bright heat lamps. They serve smores here? The waiter places a flaming cup on our table, asks us not to burn anything besides the marshmallows. His memorized speech implies there have been problems before. We promise to behave. Jimbo toasts his slowly, holding it far above the flame. Mine burns, its edges darken and catch flame and I blow it out, again and again. Always those first nervous moments; after all, we’re going to write about each other, right? So we talk about some of you instead. He’s got an unpredictable, quick humor. He makes me laugh. And it’s easy to talk. Later, back at the station, he offers me his hand, but I hug him instead, as we do in California.