To John Woo, Thanks For Everything
The front-of-the-train riders were walking up the escalators as the sounds of the erhu flowed out of the station. (That Chinese stringed instrument, like a whiney, severely anorexic cello. You know, erhu.)
This is when it began to feel like a film school freshman's homage to John Woo.
Descending into the station, the music became louder, as did the voices. Once my ears went out of focus the voices weren't saying anything, but countered the erhu nicely. The heel-toe, heel-toe of grown up shoes oddly fell into a rhythm.
It could have been the army coming to the castle in Princess Chang Ping, or any one of those kung fu movie scenes of the Shaolin armies practicing their punches against each other or buckets of sand or water. But it was just grown folks walking through the station, going home or grabbing a bite.
The marching continued as the mass of people getting off the escalator spread through the station. And then.
The blonde head rose slowly up the escalator. And then.
The blonde head became a grown-up woman. Dressed in white. She did have a black ribbed turtleneck on, but otherwise, white. Head to toe. Spotless white coat to the knees. Pointy spotless white boots to mid-calf.
She walked through the tunnel, a little slower, of course, than the prominent marching rhythm.
I laughed out loud when I hit the escalator.
Sure, the other grown-ups could have been wearing more uniformly drab and consistently colored pants and jackets. Sure the woman-in-white could have been more Trinity-like, or at least looked up instead of down, commanded a presence. At least worn a white feathered boa, you know, for the birdly effect.
Like I said, it was a freshman homage, not a thesis project.
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