On a Saturday night at 1 a.m., a lady tenderly cradled a cactus plant on the N train. It was a mediocre cactus at best; the same shape as an undersized clementine. But the way she held it suggested that it meant much more to her than just another run-of-the-mill addition to her imagined houseplant collection.
I know that, as a native New Yorker, I’m not supposed to look as if I’m actively enjoying any of the performances on the subway. And for the most part, I can appear apathetic when a full mariachi band or a man playing Kesha songs on a kazoo boards the downtown R train during my commute.
But there is a certain time when I just can’t act nonchalant. They call it “show time.” And I can’t get enough of it.