God the Mother

“Excuse me.”

It's early evening, rush hour, and I'm sitting on a crowded downtown D train. I look up from my book to see a young lady standing directly over me, smiling. She has yellow hair, thick foundation on her cheeks and pink lips. She is dressed in snug office clothes and looks like a generic professional, a receptionist perhaps.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, this is kind of a strange question, but do you believe in God the mother?"

"What?"

"I said do you believe in God the mother?"

"Oh ... I don't know..." My eyes fall to the side. I search for an answer that discourages this line of questioning from continuing but is also not terribly rude. What is my tactic here? I wait too long.

"You don't know?" She repeats my words through grinning teeth. "Well, do you believe in God?"

"Um, I guess in a way. Sure." 

"You guess? Sometimes? I mean, do you ever wonder where this all comes from?" She gestures with her hand around the train. She looks genuinely amazed but also sounds like she's reading a script. She is actually quite funny. "Do you ever wonder about the meaning of life?" 

"Do I ever wonder about the meaning of life?" I repeat, trying to mirror her enthusiasm. 

"Yeah!"

"Sure!"

"Yeah, because, I mean, what is this all about?" 

"I know, right?" 

We smile at each other for a moment. She looks like she's in on the joke and is about to burst into laughter.

"My name is Brynn. What's your name?"

"Maggie."

"Maggie, you know you can know the truth. But there's only one truth, and there's only one place you can actually find it. The bible."

"Oh yeah?" I try to sound surprised. 

"Yeah! Maggie, I lead a bible study on Thursday nights at my church where we get together and talk about all these questions. You should come. It's called the Church of God. It's on 49th Street. It's actually an office church."

"What's an office church?"

"It's just in an office building. You can't tell it's a church from the outside. Because did you know that the crosses that most churches have, the bible actually considers those idols? Did you know that? That's crazy, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "That's crazy."

"Let me give you my card." She rummages in her purse, a cheap, purple nylon thing. I realize all her clothes look very cheap. The material has the subtle sheen of a polyester blend, and her body stretches the seams and buttons unnaturally. They look like costumes, stage clothes.  

"How big is your church?" I ask.

"The church I go to or around the world?"

"Around the world."

"Around the world, we have about two million people, which is actually pretty small, which is crazy." She hands me a tiny card the size of half of a regular business card cut length wise. I clutch it in my hand without looking at it. 

"Do you always get new members by approaching random people on the subway?"

She shrugs and smiles. "Well, I do. At least I try."

"Why?"

"Why? Because of what I've seen. I just can't help telling people the truth every chance I get."

We are quiet for a second.

"Do you work around here?" she asks. 

"Oh, I work from home."

"What?"

"I'm a writer. I work from home."

"Ohhh. What stop is this? This is my stop. Nice to meet you, Maggie. Come to a meeting. Text me!"

Relieved, I lower my head to my book. But when I notice the woman next to me shoot me a sympathetic half-smile, like "You just had to deal with THAT," I suddenly feel a little defensive. That girl wasn't so bad.

I look down at the card. Both sides are covered with vague, decorative images of outer space: the white sun rising over the surface of the deep purple and blue planet, a collection of stars. Four bible passages are written in a cutesy cursive font:

Galatians 4:26 "But the Jerusalem that is above is free, and she is our Mother."

Genesis 1:26 "Then God said, 'Let Us make mankind in Our image, in Our likeness...'"

Revelation 22:17 "The Spirit and the bride say 'Come!' ... Let anyone who desires drink freely from the water of life."

I realize that Brynn's opening phrase, "God the mother," was meant to shock and intrigue, but its strangeness didn't even register to me because I was so concerned with thwarting an unwanted interaction. The card contains her phone number. I wonder what she would say if I texted her when I got off the train and asked: "What have you seen?"

Zuri

Two men sit side by side on a downtown A Express train. It's morning, and the car is crowded. The doors open at 34th Street. More people shuffle in, edging their way toward the middle of the car.

"So I said to him, 'I want a full genetic history,'" the man sitting near the window says. He has a wide, soft face. His lower lip and jawline are connected by a thin, curved strip of sculpted facial hair.

"Really?"

"Uh uh. They's no way our dogs are having babies together if I don't know exactly where his came from. No way."

His friend laughs. He wears a long necklace with a colorful flower charm made from tiny plastic beads that were melted together in a home oven. It's the kind of jewelry a little girl makes from a kit bought at a toy store. He wears black sunglasses rimmed with tiny plastic white flowers.

"And then he's talking about how because he has the male, he gets the PICK of the litter. Mmhmm. No way. Zuri's the one that's having the babies. I'm getting the pick of the litter."

"How do you know this guy anyway?"

"A friend of a friend. He met me and Zuri at the dog park."

"Ohoohhh." The man in flowers says knowingly.

The train jolts to a stop at 14th Street, and the quiet conversations are interrupted by a song:

"Joy to the world! The homeless man is here!" A tall, handsome black man wearing baggy sweatpants and a long sleeved tee shirt makes his way through."I'd appreciate any help. Food, water." He pauses for a moment. "Toothbrush, deodorant."

Careful smiles spread across faces otherwise focused on books, Kindles or the air just above the ground. But people also keep talking.

"How old is Zuri?"

"She's eleven months."

"Just eleven months and she's already having puppies?"

"Thank you for your time," the homeless man says, collecting change here and there in a plastic grocery bag. "I appreciate the help. You know I won't be homeless forever."

The train stops at West 4th Street.

"I better not be homeless forever." The homeless man exits and exits.

"No no no! I'm waiting. I'm waiting till she's two."

"Ahh."

"Yeah I'm waiting till she's two." He pauses, considering the age. The two men sway subtly into one another, shoulder to shoulder. "That seems right, doesn't it?"

"How long do dogs live?"

"Twelve, fifteen years."

"So you taking her at less than a fourth of her life and knocking her up?" Behind his flowered shades, the man looks up doing calculations in his head. "In human years, she'd be what, 15?"

The two men laugh loudly. "Poor thing."

Homecoming

Long line at the liquor store and I'm the only white girl. The man in front of me wears clean jeans up around his waist, laced work boots, a shiny red vest and baseball cap. He's lucid, unlike many others who frequent the store. He might be my age, 28, or older--old enough to have slowed down a little but not much. He recognizes someone farther up in line, a tall man, with a shiny head. This man looks older and little less lucid, a like he might be picking up refills for a night that's already begun. On his way out the door, he stops to  slap hands.

"Hey man, how you doin?"

"Doin aight." They exchange pleasantries for a while. The man in front of me explains that he's on his way home from work.

"Hey, you know Donnell's about to be comin home soon," says the shiny headed man.

"That right?"

"Yeah, man. He got 20 years."

The first man doesn't hear at first. Then he does. He says in a quieter voice. "Yo Donnell got 20 years?"

The shiny headed man nods seriously, on his way out of the door. "And now he's comin home."

Searching for In-laws on the D Train

I'm sitting on the D train, reading a book on the way home from work. My seat is by the window, my knees just a few inches away from the pair of seats against the wall. At 155th Street, a middle-aged black man wearing black jeans, a black jacket, and black sneakers, lowers himself into the seat in front of me, with a big end-of-the-workday sigh. His jacket brushes up against my knee.

"Excuse me," he says, very politely.

"It's OK." He is a wide-set man with a kind, intelligent face. I immediately like him.

The man puts in his ear buds, fiddles with his iPod, and relaxes. After about 30 seconds, a deep voice behind me can be heard asking: "You related to Darrell?"

The man in front of me looks over my head to the source of the question. He removes one earbud and stands up halfway. "What's that?'

"You related to Darrell?" the voice repeats.

"Nahh." He shakes his head.

"Aw, all right," the voice says. "You look like my son-in-law, Darrell. I thought you mighta been related to 'em."

The man returns to his seat in front of me.