"who'd want to blow up the ghetto?" wisecracked the guy behind me. we were stuck in a surprisingly short queue of those carrying what, in these parlous times, could be legitimately considered significant carry on luggage at the fordham station of the d train this morning.
a police officer, lushly sweating in a uniform two sizes small for him, lavished time in inspecting a rickety baby stroller pushed by a short tempered mother. there was no baby in the pram. the steamed mother crammed the baby buggy with grocery flyers and coupons.
when it was my turn, the officer rifled through my oversized messenger bag stuffed with a spare running shorts, a pair of thankfully unfunky shoes, a sealed bottle of mouthwash, a half empty deodorant spray canister, a camille paglia hardcover, loose change, among other things. "you're moving, buddy?" the officer deadpanned. i just shrugged and padded through the turnstile after he cleared me.
on the train, the woman to my right pored over what looked to me a very detailed tour itinerary. underscored and boldly printed in the middle of the page was the instruction "no carry on item may exceed 55 inches." that's it? all of life's essentials in one carry all no bigger than a school kid's backpack?
other than fear, this damoclean threat of random annihilation ushers in this coerced narrowing of focus, this almost epiphanic instruction one suddenly hears: pare down to what's absolute. no need for unused gym outfits, for expired oral swishes, for dangling modifiers, for run on sentences, for cloggy adverbs.
and one gratefully finds that what one's heart beats loudest for are one or two or, at most, three things. and these, one could cram into one's pockets. no luggage required.
