The Girl on the Train

I was in Grand Central Station, fresh out of the dentist. I wore a new crown, though I felt far from a king. I stood halfway down the subway stairs as I watched the #6 train doors close just a moment too soon.

Then the doors popped back open. An arm stuck, perhaps. I skittered down the stairs, took two big bounds, and leaped in like Indiana Jones. The doors stayed open for a moment longer. I could have walked.

The girl next to me smiled. Probably not at me, I figured, but in my general direction. It was a beautiful smile, sly and carefree. She could have been a model. Likely was, I figured. The only three groups jet-setting around mid-day Manhattan are models, the unemployed (me, at the moment), and tourists. And she was too pretty to be a tourist.

I thought about turning and smiling back, when I glanced at the guy holding the same pole as me. He was dressed better, and tall. How embarrassing would it be if I had intercepted her smile towards him? A nightmare scenario for all three of us. So I stared at the window, hoping the next stop was his.

The train screeched to a stop at 33rd street. Passengers shuffled in and out, ousting me from my post. I was transferred to a new pole, this one closer to her's. We were now arms-length, I could say hi without shouting. I glanced at the guy, he wasn't anything special. And I was taller. And what does it matter, anyways?

Still, I stared at the window.

I pulled out a little music gadget I was working on and fiddled with it, cycling through a few songs. Maybe it would catch her eye, she would tap on my shoulder, I would take out one AirPod, and she would ask "Sorry, what is that?"

No, that would never happen. I put the device away. I took off my AirPods in case it made me more approachable.

The train pulled into 28th. We both stayed on. I could swear she got closer.

I snuck another glance at her. She was scrolling. I looked at the man to her right. Her boyfriend? No, too old. Maybe the one to the left? No, he was holding hands with someone else. She smiled at her phone. Her guy must have sent her a reel.

Her earbuds were in, or maybe not. It was hard to tell from the corner of my eye. What if I said "Pardon me" and she didn't hear me? I'd look like a chump. I could say it again, but a second strike would be even worse. And three times is a strike-out. That's the ball game.

I thought about my friend who met his girlfriend on the train, asking her, "You went to Berkeley, right?" even though he had never seen her in his life. I could do that. But I don't know if I could sell it.

23rd now.

I thought about how I missed my chance. I thought about how silly it was to lament that I missed my chance even as she stood right besides me. I thought about how I was going to write about this. About how I could avoid writing about this if I just glanced at her and said something. Anything.

Why the hell am I even in New York if I'm not going to talk to the pretty girl on the train? I might as well be in San Francisco or the Army. Or at home, googling "Pretty girl on train" and just staring at the screen.

The train arrived at 14th, my stop. I got out, hoping she would follow. I walked up the stairs and looked back. She was nowhere to be seen. Not that it would have changed anything.

So here I am now, collecting my thoughts. I write this all down not just to be self-critical (though it is partly that) but also because this is a pattern I would like to break.

Here's how I think approaching that girl on the train would have gone.

INT. SIX TRAIN - DAY

Pardon me. Did you go to USC?

HER

(takes out her earbuds)

What?

Did you go to USC?

HER

Oh, no.

Ah, could've sworn you were in my operations class. Sorry if this is awkward, but I just have to say, you're totally stunning.

HER

Oh thank you.

I get off soon, but could I give you my number? I'd love to take you out to drinks or coffee or something.

HER

Oh wow, sure. / Sorry, I have a boyfriend. / I'm good. / I'd love to. /

FADE TO BLACK

A little cringe, a little plain. By no means charming. But she probably wouldn't scream at me or shoot me with a gun. Worse case, she doesn't respond, and that wouldn't be the end of the world. I'd look a little foolish, but I've looked foolish before. I sing in the street, I dance in the bar. It's whatever. No matter the outcome, I would have been so proud of myself for giving it a shot.

So what's stopping me? The simple answer is insecurity. I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see. Why should I subject someone else to that? But my rational half disagrees with this premise. I'm not awful-looking with my shirt on. I'm smart enough, I have some skills, and my personality isn't totally wretched.

My real crisis is a simulacrum of insecurity. It is hyperreal. All just words in my head, placed there by long walks in the dark or late-season BoJack Horseman. It's compulsive. The feeling comes first and the reasons come after. Reverse cope, if you will, though you don't have to.

So now I must figure out what comes next. This is the hard part. I'd love to say that next time, I'll just make my move, but I told myself that yesterday and the day before. And so however silly, I will give my friend Jonathan $100 if I don't ask a girl out by September 28th. I'll report back soon.

Rules

1. I must be sober.

2. It must be a girl I do not know.

3. I must actually ask her out, not just read the room.

She doesn't have to say yes. In fact, I should probably ask a girl so far out of my league that I expect a no. And then I'll do it again and again.