People who take public transport are usually degenerate. I know this because I do, and I’m a degenerate. Most designated waiting platforms are depressing, dimly lit, looking something like the hallway of a psychiatric ward after visiting hours are up, with advertisements left and right for products you don’t care to know about, let alone spend money on. Sometimes there’ll be a homeless man sleeping on the bench you had at one point hoped to sit on to rest your weary feet, but never mind that, because if you wake the hobo up to move him over, he’ll only harass you for change you don’t have anyway.
Once you step into the car of a train, a variety of elements is sure to rape one or all five of the human senses. Sometimes it’s the smell, usually a deadly combination of body odour, cheap fragrance, and day-long stale take-out and coffee. Sometimes it’s the people – most of them are not attractive. They also hate you because they have to ride the subway. Sometimes it’s the kid who won’t shut the hell up, and the mother who won’t shut the hell up when you, on behalf of all TTC commuters within earshot, tell the kid to shut the hell up. Sometimes it’s the fat fuck who can’t fit properly on one seat and invades your personal space by squishing you in and falling asleep on your shoulder during a long ride and then drooling on your shirt. Sometimes it’s the fact that the TTC doesn’t believe that any outside temperature under 30°C is worth turning on the air conditioning for. Sometimes it’s all of the above, and when it is, it is the worst.
But not today. Today she was smiling at me from her window seat as the northbound train was taking me home after a long day of schooling. When we made eye contact, she quickly diverted her attention to her cell phone. She was gorgeous. Long, blonde hair, green eyes, and real pretty lips were the first things I noticed. And then my eyes flew south and I couldn’t help but notice that she had a figure to match. I tried not to stare – not because it’s rude to, but more because I didn’t want her thinking that I was a repeated sex offender. At least not right away.
But how the hell do you start talking to a girl in the subway? The usual nightclub/bar pick-up lines would most definitely fall flat: sentences such as, “Hey honey, come here often?” and “This is lame, let’s get outta here,” are not what girls want to hear on a subway. I know this because the time I tried it I got maced. I had to focus, re-group and re-strategize. I noticed that she had her iPod going and she was really feeling the music that was coming out of it, whatever it was. I also noticed that I, too, had my mp3 player from like, 8 years ago going (told you I was degenerate), and suddenly Soul Plane comes on. I then knew what I had to do to open this girl. I went and sat down beside her, but I made sure there was an empty seat in between us (that whole sex offender vibe thing), and then I put my bag between us (so no one could take that empty seat).
We made eye contact again, and this time I smiled back, and capitalized:
Yui: Hey, you got a quick second?
Girl (taking off her earbuds, still smiling): Oh, I’m sorry?
Yui: My bad. I was just hoping to get your opinion on something, on a song. Think you can help me out?
Girl: Sure! I’d love to!
Yui: ...but first, let me give you a background story. I’ve been rapping for a while now, you know, the shit you hear on the radio, the shit you’re probably listening to right now on your iPod there.
Girl: Haha, well I’m not really a fan of radio hip hop today. It all sounds the same to me, like I mean, it’s good party music, you can dance to it, but ehhh, I’m more into music music, if you know what I mean.
I do know what you mean. I also know that there is a God in heaven and He’s playing my wingman right now.
Yui: Well that’s the thing. I kinda got sick of it, too. Actually, it blows. I’d give anything to be back in the mid-nineties when Nas, Jay-Z were just coming out, before Biggie and Tupac were shot, all that shit. A Tribe Called Quest...
Girl: OH MY GOD I LOOOOOVE Q-TIP.
Unreal.
Yui: Whoa. Impressive.
Girl: Haha, my brother absolutely loves rap... the good kind, though. He blasts it all over the house whenever he’s home. My mom knows lyrics you probably don’t.
Yui: I believe it. Tell her I’m anticipating her mixtape release.
She let out a laugh, probably the most melodious laugh I’ve ever heard. I was already writing lyrics to it. She introduced herself as Stacy. I introduced myself as well, feeding her the overused line that she’ll never get my name right the first time (“YUI. You-ee. Y-U-I. Look on your keyboard, it’s three letters right beside each other. My parents weren’t very creative, but they were sure observant and practical.” Gets a laugh maybe a quarter of the time.). I am suddenly aware of many people (mostly guys) staring at me, probably wondering what divine intervention helped me muster up the courage to talk to this beauty. Their guesses are every bit as good as mine.
Yui: So since I started getting sick of rap and where it was going, I got sick of rapping myself. The game just wasn’t fresh anymore, I guess. I don’t know. But last summer I started rapping with this live band, and that’s what brings me here now.
Stacy: Whoa, that sounds like it’d be awesome!
Yui: Well, that’s where you come in. I need you to tell me if it is, in fact, awesome or not. And then I need you to tell me the degree of awesomeness it has reached on the awesome meter.
Stacy: Stop making fun of me!
Yui: Here, just listen.
As she put on my headphones, she narrowed her eyes and gave me this jokingly reproachful look that almost brought out the sex offender in me (again). I set the mp3 player to play “Impossible” followed by “Liquor on the Curb,” and 45 seconds into the song, it begins:
Stacy: Oh whaaaaaaaaaat. Is this really you?
Yui: Guilty as charged.
Stacy: This is soooo hot.
Yui: Really? So you’d buy a CD of this?
Stacy: I could drink a whole case of this stuff.
Yui: Keep listening... if you can, listen to this one and one more. They’re real different, and I want to make sure everything sounds together as far as your opinion is concerned.
Stacy: Oh, of course, I’d love to.
Stacy took the mp3 player from my hands and left me sitting there with my thumbs up my ass. As she got lost in the music, I furtively glanced at her every 10 seconds or so to try to gauge a reaction. She seemed like she was enjoying it. Now I had to find a way to make her enjoy me. Thankfully, as I was still trying to plan my words out, she set me up for the kill right as she finished listening to the tracks:
Stacy: That was fucking amazing. My awesomenesss meter just... off the hook.
Yui: Haha, it’s always nice to have a new fan.
Stacy: Has this been on the radio? Do you guys ever perform live anywhere? I’d love to come watch this happen.
Yui: You’re moving up from fan to groupie status real quick, huh?
Stacy (smiling mischievously): Maybe.
Yui: Seriously though, we’re playing at the Reverb on June 18th, you should come check us.
Stacy: Oh really? Is it an event or something?
Yui: More of a showcase. We’re kinda in a shitty situation though... reps from Sony and BMG are going to be there and we have nothing to show for anything... they give us 30 minutes of their time after we play to present ourselves, and we’re supposed to have press kits to give them, but there’s not a chance that’ll happen... we’re still in the midst of recording songs.
Stacy: Well, whatever, you have this. They’re dumb if they don’t take you for this. Just show them what you showed me.
Yui: Eh, hopefully. We’ll have to make a good-ass impression on stage, that’s for sure.
As we talked about the show on the 18th that she ended up marking down in her planner, we pulled out of York Mills station. The subway driver announces that the next station coming up would be Sheppard.
Yui: Oh, yo, where are you getting off?
Stacy: Sheppard. You?
Yui: Finch. Shit, you’re out, huh?
Stacy: You going to miss me?
Yui: I just want you at my show. Also your friends. The more the merrier.
Stacy: I’ve known you for maybe 15 minutes and you’re already using me?
Yui: Here, take my number and our website. You’ll need advance tickets if you’re cheap like I am.
Stacy: No. You take MY number and MY Facebook. That way, if I never talk to you again, I’ll know why.
Yui: Ha, fair enough. I don’t do that Facebook thing, but Soul Plane’s on it. Gimme MSN.
Stacy: Okay, but I will take that website though if it has anything interesting on it.
Man, is she ever in for a surprise. I also took the opportunity to extend to her an open invitation to band practices and recording sessions, both of which she immediately said she was looking forward to. As she ripped out a page of her planner, wrote her info down and walked out of the car at Sheppard, we got up to hug and she pecked me lightly on the cheek and told me to call her. If I wasn’t still in the subway and without reception, I would have. Like, right away. It then dawned on me that this Soul Plane-aided pick-up was definitely blog-worthy. It also dawned on me that if I stayed in touch with her (as I plan to), she’ll read the story online. This oughta be good.
