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."
