West 4th Stop of...?

I’m on the A this afternoon, traveling from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Across from me is a mother, large-sized, African-American, maybe 30, hair in heavy braids pulled coiled beside each ear like ram’s horns. Flattering, really. She’s with her friend, who looks a bit young, maybe 18 (soft in complexion), and a small boy, maybe 5 or 6 years old who is smooshed between the two.

The boy is: cute. Cute in the way that little boys who have indulgent mothers know they’re cute. And the mother is the kind of mother who is loud in her banter with the child, in the way that a mother who is a good mother can be, but mostly when they want to make sure that everyone can see what a good mother they are and how great their little kid is turning out. Fair play. This was a good kid.

“I don’t like Manhattan!” the little boy shouts. His eyes glitter and his teeth show when he smiles.

“We’re IN Manhattan right now!” the mother laughs to him.

“I like Manhattan,” the boy then said, smiling at me with each exlamation.

“You like Manhattan now?” mom said.

“I like Manhattan,” the boy said, smiling coyly at me. “I want to say, ‘Hi!’ to Manhattan!”

“Okay, you can say ‘Hi’ to Manhattan at the next stop,” mom said.

“Oh, not the NEXT stop,” said the woman with the mother and her boy. “Heh heh, you know, none of that there…” she laughed knowingly.

The next stop was West 4th.

“Oh, yeah! You can say ‘Hi!’ at the stop after that,” mom says to child.

And I look down at my boring book, done with the exchange, wondering what the hell happened to these women at the West 4th stop, not entirely pleased with the scenarios I am imagining.