I step onto the Skytrain and sat down next to the door. The oily smell of suntan lotion permeates the train; a sure sign that summer weather has arrived. Indeed, it's only the second time this year that I've left home without wearing a jacket.
I have my Winner camera strapped around my neck. My intention for the afternoon is to finish a roll in it and go to the lab. I bend over, hold it up to my eye and take a photo of a discarded newspaper on the floor of the train. Another shot for the reject pile. I sit back and take out my notebook to write down details of this exposure. My hands throb from the movement. Eczema, most likely brought on by stress and the change in weather is making my hand sore and causing skin to flake off. I notice some flakes of skin on my bag and shirt as I put my notebook back into my bag. I brush them off.
I only have the smaller part of my Lomography bag with me. A couple people have referred to it as a "man-purse". I had just dropped off the larger part of my bag at a shoe repair place to have the strap reattached. Unfortunately the place where I had it repaired when the strap on the other side broke has since gone out of business. I hope this other guy does as good a job. I'll find out two days and seven dollars later.
The train pulls into Patterson Station. A voice buzzes over the public address system informing us that the 22nd Street Station is closed due to a police incident. I'm curious as to what has happened. I contemplate phoning my mother to find out. No doubt she has her portable radio held up to her ear listening to the news; getting whatever details are available. I decide it isn't worth the twenty-five cents to find out.
At Joyce Station a young man comes in and leans his back against the glass next to me. He looks a little silly wearing sweatpants with the word "volleyball" printed across the backside; the "O" in volleyball being replaced by a picture of a volleyball. I hear the announcement being repeated in the station. Volleyball gets off two stations later.
A disheveled guy with a pockmarked face stumbles in at Broadway Station. He walks past me, then steps back and looks at me. He points to the camera around my neck, then lifts his hands to his face and mimics taking a photo, shaking his head afterwards. I shrug and leave my sore hands on my lap. I'm thankful that he doesn't sit anywhere close to me.
I get off at Stadium Station. I have no idea where I'm going to shoot the remaining fifteen shots on this roll. I subsequently discover that I've missed running into Jen and Cliff by about half an hour.
