The City's Oil

When I’m on them, trains never leave, and when waiting, they never arrive.

The subways are stuck in a gelatin of immobility.

At arm’s length I hold a oil from class, knowing full well that it takes days to dry and leaves an impenetrable stain when lightly brushed by clothing.

I attempt to share the knowledge with the other riders. I think first to tell them it’s fresh paint, so their concern to keep my glowing picture intact will make them keep their distance. But that thought soon vanishes from my mind. What I tell them instead, is what really concerns them. That the paint in question will destroy their designer handbags, skinny jeans, vintage T-shirts, and supple suede in less time than it took for said shoppers to slap down the plastic to buy it.

They keep their distance.

When the train finally chugs into the station nearest my apartment, I step off in a rush, to breathe a bit less-stale air, to bound up the stairs, and to bring my painting home, where after dry and after scrutiny, I’ll toss it under my bed because it’s not good enough.

The doors open and I jump out, clunky and weighed down from my box of colors, my portfolio bag digging deep into my shoulder, inhaling low, only to remember. This is the spot, the exact spot, where no matter what time on what day it is, it reeks of heavy, acidic urine.

I stop inhaling. I hold my breath, shuffle up the stairs as I’m swept in the crowd, and try to keep the painting away from everyone’s outfits, though a pusher in a hurry, elbows several people before getting to me, and slams his way past, smearing his hand on the picture.

Because of the crowd, it’s tilted again, this time smearing me, my skinny jeans, my vintage T. I cringe. I left my smock in the classroom because it was too wet and too big, and far too unfashionable to ride home in. As if anyone would have cared.

Watercolors were meant for New York, for the subway. Pencils, pastels, ink. Recycled sketch pads. Quick drying, easy to move, fast, fast, fast.

Not oil. Oil is slow, slow, slow.

Oil was meant for the landscapes of Chile and Scotland, the portraits of royalty and their pearled lace collars, plump fruit and flowers bunched loosely on a starched tablecloth, figures swathed in cotton or bathing in green waters and sunshine.

Oil was not meant for me, not for the subway, and not for New York.