My morning commute

I hope to leave my room at 6:20 latest in order to catch the subway train that will still make me tardy to work, though inconspicuously so. I walk down my hallway cursing the faces I've never seen behind each of the doors I pass, believing they're comfortable in their beds - I imagine smiles on all of their dreaming faces. When I reach the elevator I say a quick prayer that the elevator will not be broken and so I will not have to take the stairs down. Riding or walking to the basement I feel like the only person in the whole world; I've never seen anyone in my building as I leave to go to work. As I reach the back door to my apartment and prepare to step out I say a second prayer that it will not be raining and so that I will not be forced to fumble in my sling-bag for the umbrella that's too small the keep me dry, anyway. I pray it's not raining but I hope it has just recently rained - the damp pavement outside shimmers in the moonlight and it's one of the prettiest things I'll see that day. When it was winter Rebekah was in New Hall and as I crossed 24th I could see her closed window and I knew she was laying snug in her covers just past the closed blinds. I thought of her and of seeing her later that day. Sometimes Orion was visible directly over her dorm. As I walk toward the metro entrance people in lab coats or scrubs or both are hurrying into the hospital. I pick up my Express newspaper from Ernest, the wheelchair-bound distributor, who when seeing me coming perks up and folds my newspaper to give to me. He always greets me with a cool "What's up?". I hope he truly remembers my face out of the crowd of other people he must give papers to but I can’t explain why. As I head towards the elevator there is often a crowd heading out of the station; I wonder how much earlier they must have gotten up than I did. Sometimes the blind man I see each morning is in front of me on the escalator or on the metro platform standing stiff as a sentinel. I see him, take a breath, and am thankful for my slight, yet at the same time am filled with admiration for the man who is able to function seemingly so well despite his handicap. I walk down the platform until I come to the air-conditioning vent and stand by it (although it blows only a faint whisper of a breeze). There are sometimes college-aged couples in embrace saying “goodbye” in those early mornings; in a slight way their sight makes me depressed and I wish they didn’t have to say goodbye. I never have to wait more than a couple minutes (barring the occasional fifteen minute track delay) before the train comes. Uncountable commutes have taught me just where to stand for the train’s door to stop right in front of me. Dismal faces file out of the train; no one seems to have any song or happiness in them. Nine times out of ten there will be an empty seat for me to sit down on. If it's an older train, after my first nose-inhale I remember to only breath through my mouth. I take out my folded Express and begin to read. The captions are often humorous and give me a much-needed chuckle on the monotonous ride. At each stop some people get off the train and some get on though I never lift my head off to see. I am just to the entertainment section of the paper when the train stops at L'Enfant Plaza, where I must transfer to the Green Line. I knew just where to get on the train so that I would be put right by the escalator going up to the next level when I got off. Timing counts here: if I see people coming down the escalator then I've already missed my train and will have to wait. At the top of the stairs I turn and begin walking towards the platform. For Yellow Line trains, the next stop is The Pentagon, and there are usually many uniformed servicemen waiting. Last summer the scantily dressed blonde would regularly be there, too. I sometimes watched the rest of the crowed; almost surreally every male head would turn as she got on her train. I chuckled to myself. I assume she was an intern; since last summer's end she has not been back there. My train soon comes and I realize I am in the homestretch of time left before I am in work. I try to savor the taste of freedom. I pull out my paper and continue reading. I am sad because when the paper ends my journey is almost over; I almost feel that if I could read more and even read forever I could just go on forever reading and never go to work. As the train moves along and since our destination is out of the city we lose more people than we pick up on the train, and the cars slowly empty out. I finish the paper around the Southern Ave. stop, just as the metro comes above ground. As we leave the stop we past over what I like to call "the forest". Passing over the trees we also pass over a fairly wide stream. On occasion last summer I'd seen deer drinking from the water there. Everyday I strain looking for another but haven't seen one since then. I never know how long "the forest" goes on for because then we briefly go underground again. I’d like to think of the forest as endless, and that far back in those trees there are whole groups of deer grazing. On our emergence there is a field to the right of the train. It is often misty in the morning. Though for no particular reason I imagine a revolutionary battle being fought down in the mist. The right side of our train faces towards the East or South. As we approach the Naylor road stop, on the rarest of occasions - if I'm very lucky - the sunrise paints the whole sky a multitude of colors: pink, purple, orange, and red. The times I've seen this I could count on one hand. The image could appear on any postcard. I find this one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen though as I then look around the train I feel as though none of the other rides (most of them census employees at this point) see the artwork nature has created. Rather, they just stare down sulkily. We continue on and we reach the cemetery where I first thought on the trip to my second interview at the Census, "I can never work here because this commute is just too long!" - and then we continue on. We keep going and finally reach the Suitland platform. We file out of the train and up the escalator, passing those rushing down to catch the train we just got off. We keep walking up, over the walkway, where that station's Express distributor is kindly greeting commuters by him. Near him are two young boys shouting "Washington Times! Twenty-Five cents!". I've only seen them make one sale. We keep in a mob as we walk through the parking garage, out the other side to the Census gate. I show my badge the first time and walk through. Before the construction I could walk right across the street but now I must walk through a passage lined with spiders and their webs, which runs a good hundred yards around the construction. I think about how, while keeping my eyes peeled lest I walk into a web, that I will never see the end of this construction. At the building I show my badge a second time. I drag in, walk the two wings to my office, drop down my stuff with a plop and think about how I won't see the sun for nine and a half more hours, and all I'll have to show for the day is being nine and a half hours older.