That She Wooed Me Was Inconsequential
Her whiskered mole might have been waving hello, or transmitting AM waves. The train hurtled forward, underground, approaching Park Street station. Our semi-permeable cell wall was six feet of stale air. I couldn't stop staring at her: Short hair parted on one side, gold-rimmed glasses, "naked" colored tights, and that mole, with one extended hair, sprouting off the right side of her mouth. But her visual appeal was not the cause of this unceasing allure. During the whole of our ride-time, she ate a bagel.
You must know something here, and it is this: To say “she ate a bagel” acknowledges the truth of this woman’s actions as much as “regional dispute” describes wholly the Pan Qing skirmish of 1247.
She held a bagel, broke it in half. She then inserted the bagel-half into her mouth at least four inches deep. Imagine. Four inches. Of a thick, heavy bagel. This is not meant to evoke lewd comparison. It's an impressive feat of human engineering, is all. Furthermore, the bagel was Plain. No cream cheese, no raisins, no asiago cheese, not even a poppy seed. The object of her perversely voluminous desire appeared to be, from my vantage, a plain, untoasted, by-now-cold bagel.
But that was only Step One. Following the Insert & Bite was The Great Chew. Once this bagel portion was in her mouth, she began to chew. And chew. Big, air-sucking chews. Trash compactor chews. Car demolition chews. Teeth-bared chews, the incisors stained slightly from an excess of gluten, a chunk of bagel peeking out between top and bottom rows—this time, she bit off too much. Finally, incredibly, she swallowed. And inserted & bit again.
All the while, she's staring straight out in front of her, wide-eyed, concentrating. Her trance put me in one. I couldn't stop watching this miracle of mastication. The mouth opened, the jaw unhinged, the hand drew near, the bagel entered, and entered, and entered. At last she severed the doughy ring, and began the mashing anew.
I looked around. Was anyone else seeing this? Surely such a display could not go unnoticed. And yet her possible audience remained captivated elsewhere, choosing the undulations of their lap fabric to this stunning display of storage. The ignorance was reciprocal. Her eyes, dead to the gawkers (me), scanned the subway ads, possibly for medical studies seeking Women aged 34-52 Capable of Chewing 2 lb. Hunks of Bagel in One Sitting. She could apply, get the monetary compensation, be the subject of some article in the New England Journal of Medicine. She could get herself out of this crazy life she's leading, riding trains, chewing bagels until someone notices her, that plaid skirt, those puffy cheeks, and they could run away together, in forever-chewing matrimony.
I then notice the wedding ring. Or is it something else? I look closer. Could it be… a 24 carat gold miniature Plain Bagel wrapped around her finger?
Did I miss my stop? Does it matter anymore? Another swallow. Another gaping hole filled with bagel. I ponder possible explanations. What if she has diabetes, and needs an influx of carbs, and fast? If so, oh I am an insensitive bastard. This woman is chewing for her life. And you (me) are berating her efficiency.
Or maybe—yes!—she was conducting some self-realized study on consumption, clandestinely measuring her pulse and gastric acid ph levels in order to foster learning on how quickly fast-eaters digest, imagining a future where no one has enough free time to feed oneself, and she wants to get a jump on the available grant money for research…
The shriek of brakes, the sliding of doors. She exits the train. Her meal is over now. But I feel nourished by an impossible, osmotic digestion. My gaze follows her out, my jaw unconsciously chomping in my closed mouth, molars propelled by the vicarious momentum of her unsustainable wish: to keep chewing. Just keep chewing.
Jon Irwin teaches composition in a very Blue part of New England. He, too, gets sad sometimes. But then he talks with his four-year-old nephew on the phone and everything is peachy-keen again.