Jerome A. White
revision: 6/15/07
| “Subway virgin?” The young woman’s voice disrupted my intense study of the DC Metro map posted on the inside wall of the train. “No, I’ve ridden before,” I mumbled, meekly defending myself against the juvenile taunt. The rumbling train only amplified the quiver that had suddenly hijacked my voice. I slowly turned my head to meet my obnoxious accuser, keeping my body squared to the wall map. I didn’t want to invite any further discussion of this sort. Five seconds of silence. The woman’s shimmering auburn eyes and mischievous smirk dared me to expound on my dubious claim. My startled expression gradually morphed into a sheepish smile. “Two days ago I rode the Metro from the airport to my hotel.” I offered. “Yup… That was my first time.” She giggled. “My name’s Gabriella. Or Gabby, for short.” “I prefer ‘Gabriella.’ Gabby sounds too much like crabby, or blabby, or shabby, or flabby.” She answered my bumbled attempt at clever conversation with an exaggerated mock-scowl. My smile broadened into a toothy grin. This girl intrigued me. ~ ~ ~ Business travel had delivered me on my first visit to the nation’s capital. This third evening of my trip, I planned to exit the Red Line at DuPont Circle to meet my boss for dinner. Gabby derailed those plans. Standing about 5’4” in the chilly subway train, she concealed herself under a bulky tan overcoat and knit cap, guiding me to carefully study her subtle smile and gentle facial features. The reddish-brown tint of her eyes flickered with the muted fluorescent train lights. Her smooth caramel skin and a few short, black, curly locks peeking from under the rim of her cap gave little clue to her ethnicity. Black? Latina? Mixed? Gabby’s modest attire was not particularly fashionable. She wore little make-up, if any. This unadorned, unpretentious face framed by drab layers of cold-weather clothing offered the only portal to the spirit of a woman who could have easily traveled the outskirts of my life unnoticed. I only now started appreciating how naturally beautiful she was. Would I have even noticed her if she hadn’t spoken to me first? Gabby’s initial flirtations gave way to shy reservation. Sweet and mellow. As I gradually gained more confidence to freely dispense my awkward brand of small talk and corny humor, she simply responded with modest snickers and fleeting glances between the floor and me. Had the novelty of my quirky charm already worn off? I really wanted to know this girl. ~ ~ ~ Perhaps sensing my increasing befuddlement, Gabby revived our lulled exchange. “So, what brings you to our humble little District?” I recited an unspectacular summary of the meetings and transactions that had comprised the bulk of my visit. Could this information possibly be of any interest to anyone, or had we just reverted to the kind of small talk that entraps people who don’t feel like sharing too much about themselves? “Actually, let me tell you the real reason I’m here,” I blurted, interrupting my own droning monologue. “I heard DC is a great place to lose one’s subway virginity.” Gabby and I settled beside each other in the narrow plastic bench seats that became available as passengers exited at Cleveland Park. We commenced our social interviews. Gabby grew up in Rockford, Illinois, and graduated from University of Chicago. Her parents and brother still live in the area. She spent a few years working in sales for a local pharmaceutical company. Eventually she grew weary of “earning a decent living wage,” and moved to DC three years ago to lobby for health care reform. I liked this girl. ~ ~ ~ Never one to get lost in a moment for too long, my annoyingly pragmatic nature nagged me about venturing so far beyond my intended Metro destination. DuPont Circle was five stops ago. I previewed the phone call in my mind: “Hello Mr. Edwards, I’m so sorry I’m running late for dinner. I just traveled 15 minutes past my stop chatting with some chick I met on the subway.” Not good. Conquered by practicality, I decided to conclude this escapade. Was it symbolic that I finally chose to exit the subway at Friendship Heights? Was it symbolic that Gabby also exited at Friendship Heights? The train swiftly disappeared into the darkness of the underground tunnel, leaving us standing on the median dividing the two sets of tracks. The benches were empty on the opposite side of the median. I must have just missed the train headed back to Metro Center. Gabby turned and headed leisurely toward the escalator without saying a word, as if she knew we wouldn’t quite yet be saying goodbye. I ascended the escalator with her into the chilly DC twilight. “You ever walked around Friendship Heights?” She didn’t even turn her head to pose the question; unsurprised that I was still walking alongside her; unconcerned that I would now be at least a half hour late meeting my boss for dinner. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.” Gabby proceeded to guide me on a walking tour through a charming residential neighborhood. My hooded cotton sweater failed to adequately shield me from the gusty cold. I wrapped my arm tightly across Gabby’s shoulders, but it was the warmth of her inviting personality that truly drew me near. Our stroll offered a much more pleasant environment for new friends than a subway car could provide. The bright, solid-colored Victorian houses lined the streets like meticulously-ordered rows of crayons. Neatly manicured shrubs and gardens divided by wrought iron gates suggested the nostalgic quaintness of a bygone era. “Is this a nice neighborhood to live in?” I asked. “I wouldn’t know. I live in Rockville.” “But isn’t that…” Before I could even finish asking why she exited the Red Line six stops early, Gabby stopped suddenly and cast an impish gaze upon me. We both burst out laughing. Gabby’s charade as tour guide comically disintegrated as we meandered aimlessly through the picturesque lanes of 19-century architecture. At each intersection she paused to ask me a question. “What’s your favorite TV program?” “The Daily Show.” She took a sharp left turn. “Dogs, cats, or guinea pigs?” “Cats.” She took an immediate right turn. “What did you eat for breakfast this morning?” “Peanuts and a granola bar.” She cringed, and plodded straight ahead. After passing by the same burgundy townhouse with mauve shutters for the third time, I began to question the validity of Gabby’s navigational techniques. Nonetheless, her running commentary rewarded me with an extraordinary history lesson. She pointed out dubious landmarks, such as the middle school “playground where Marion Barry made his first crack purchase,” and “the deserted apartment where Dick Cheney claimed his fourth victim.” Raucous laughter pierced the dark silence of the sleepy neighborhood. The sounds of an emerging friendship ricocheted carelessly off the walls of the tall Victorian structures. This girl is amazing, but I really should call my boss. ~ ~ ~ A taxi brought us to Gabby’s Rockville apartment just before 8pm. We continued to share childhood memories, faith, music, breakfast cereal, classic literature, laundry detergent, morality, plastic vs. paper bags, peanut butter, and other aspects of our life stories. At 8:37, I kissed her for the first of many times. By 10pm, we were reminiscing over how we first met such a long time ago. At midnight, we had our first fight. Several minutes later, we made up. At 1am, we pledged our undying love for one another. At 2:30, we broke up. At 2:45 we got back together and promised to never hurt each other. At 6am, we split up again. At 6:14 I said goodbye and headed to the conference back at the hotel. Gaby and I had exchanged phone numbers, but I think we both knew no further words would ever be spoken between us. My boss and I flew back home two days later, returning me to the comfort and safety of a predictable daily routine. There is no subway where I live. There is no Red Line. There is no Friendship Heights. I loved that girl. |