What?

This morning on the subway, a small, tow-headed boy ran on at Montrose Avenue and took the seat next to mine. He leaned his Justice League backpack into my side, oblivious to the adult constraints on human proximity. His mother followed, carrying another, smaller child on her back- a blond little girl, maybe two years old, sticking out her lower lip and waving her tiny right hand in frantic circles.

The mother wore a short skirt and black stockings, and her straight brown hair looked unwashed. She was young, not over thirty-three, let's say, but had a slightly haggard morning face. Understandable, of course. She began telling her son about the longest train in the world, the Trans-Siberian Railroad. "It runs through Russia, all the way to Japan," she said. "No, not Japan....Korea."

The boy looked on, fascinated. "Does it take seventy days?"

"Probably not that many. Maybe ten or so," she said. "But it doesn't even stop at night."

That fact delighted the boy, who reached into his school backpack and took out a catalogue of Star Wars toys. I noticed then that he wore reddish pajama pants decorated with smudged strawberries and raspberries. Although I admired the mother, on first impression, for her liberal bearing and good humor amid the difficult undertaking, I couldn't forgive this transgression on her son's burgeoning social life. The little girl, now on her mother's lap, said "ba ba ba ba."

"How delightful!" said the mother, using a haughty movie voice. Her son, engrossed in the tiny pictures of Darth Vader and other heroes, ignored both. "Now I sound like Katherine Hepburn," the mother said to no one. I turned and gave a sympathetic smile, even though I don't think I've ever seen a Katherine Hepburn movie.

When the boy closed the catalogue, I tried to glance at the name on the address label, wondering if I could google the mother and read all about her life on a personal website. Her name was Judith, and the last name started with a V, but I couldn't get a clear look at the rest. I lost interest anyway. I put on headphones and tuned out. A few minutes later, the boy crooked his foot behind my leg, and I felt the intense discomfort that comes when a social taboo is on the verge of being violated. I ahem'ed with mild vigor, and the attractive girl standing in front of me laughed at the spectacle, but the mother or son didn't notice.

The decision to stop caring was easily made, and the regions of the brain dealing with matters analogous led me to the memory of how I sought physical contact with my father. It usually took the form of violence- the male comfort zone- crawling like a cat or super-spy along the top of the couch while dad watched the news. I'd poise above with a delirious grin, trying to contain my bursting giggles, dad unsuspecting or pretending at it when my springy weight fell straight down, landing on his wide shoulders to hang like a pet monkey, writhing in ecstatic laughter. My younger brothers all did the same.

It occurred to me that a certain willful ignorance about the lives of others isn't necessarily as arrogant as I once thought. I'd put pressure on myself to notice everything, take a piece of life from everyone. But it's not always meant to be. On the 4-train uptown, an older, round-faced woman with permed hair of the 80s variety, wearing a mid-length pleated black skirt with no stockings- a fact that awkwardly highlighted her bright, white skin and bruised kneecaps- leaned forward with an absent-minded expression that could be misinterpreted as dumb smugness.

Whoever she was, I didn't care, and couldn't. But there isn't anything to feel guilty about- she doesn't care about me either. Each spider's web can only catch so many flies. Others are meant to hit the sides, ricochet outward, breathe a sigh of relief at the close call, and be on their way. And still others are meant to soar miles above or below, unaware of your little web, bound for their own.

Another example: the RDS delivery man, a sullen, heavy, pasty-white man with a face like a fat, cynical child. He comes in every morning in his hunter-green uniform, bearing the packages in both arms like a miserable burden, and turns to give me an exasperated sigh. The short hairs on his head move slightly with the hallway's compressed air current, and he sulks off to the main entrance. "Fuck you," I mouth at him after he's turned away. Next door, I can hear him transferring the packages and asking for a signature. "You know the drill," he mumbles in his low, disaffected moan.

This man probably has a story. He may be an expert on model trains, or maybe he's a champion paintball player. But unless he goes crazy one morning and guns me down where I sit, our paths will only make this daily, superficial crossing.