While I Worked as a Lab Tech
at Roosevelt Hospital in New York City
One Friday night in the winter
of 1971 I got the last seat
home on the bus, the back
row in the middle, the worst seat.
And the weather was
terrible with sleet and snow,
making our one hour
ride into two and a half
hours. The woman beside me
fell asleep on my shoulder, her name
was Jean. She was 24 years old
and worked as a window-dresser
for Fortunoff's in New York City.
She was tall and shapely,
pleasant and pretty, with long
lustrous brown hair. We'd say "hi"
when our eyes would meet at
the station. I liked
her and watched her closely
and could tell she hated it when men,
especially the middle-aged
businessmen with plump wives
and kids in college,
made passes at her. But I
never did that I only said "hi"
when our eyes
would meet at the station.
But that was enough for me because,
I was young, life was still
a mystery, and she never fell asleep
on any of their shoulders
like she had on mine.
—Michael Estabrook
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