Stylus in one hand and my Dell PDA in the other, I charged into the awaiting subway car and strode three paces to the rare treat of an empty seat, passing a dark black man in a black jacket nestled knee-to-knee beside what was likely his boyfriend--very fair-skined, blond, goateed, brown leather jacket, silken white shirt, ready with a whisper into the other’s ear. Who knows what was said. I took the seat beside them and continued my digital scribbling. A moment after the train lurched and began accelerating out of the 18th Street station, I looked up to gather my thoughts. If I hadn’t, I’d have missed it.
Facing the couple, sitting diagonally across from me, and alarmed at the prospect of his spill was a tall, big-boned, lean black man front-loaded with a fussy café con leche baby boy. He'd been trying to pour Odwalla juice into the baby’s bottle while clasping the caps of both containers and dangling two shopping bags from his fingers. A delicate act anywhere public in New York, especially the group rocking chair that is a moving subway car.
Without prompting, Boyfriend Black across from the dad stretched out a palm and silently offered to hold the caps. A nod and smile of thanks followed from the father as he happily surrended the caps, put the bags between his feet, and finally made the bright orange liquid transfer. Next Boyfriend Blond offered a palm for the empty Odwalla bottle, and Boyfriend Black returned the nippled cap. Onto the bottle and bottle held in Baby's mouth in a second flat; Dad's other hand, now free, brandished a paper towel from somewhere, laid it atop the spill, and patted it down as gently as possible with his enormous foot. He accepted the Odwalla cap and bottle back, looked up, and said with a smile, "You guys are my village."
Moments later, after I'd scribbled a few more notes, after the couple had unbeknownst to me left the train, I decided as we pulled out of Times Square station that I'd snap a phone pic of the father as a visual reminder of the moment.