F Train Interlude

I GAVE way to a teenager when he boarded the F Train at the Lexington Avenue subway stop one early evening in July. The train was full but was not packed like it would be during the late afternoon rush when Midtown Manhattan becomes one big ocean of white collars.

He found a spot in front of where I stood near the door. He must be in high school, judging by the blonde kid’s shirt, denims, worn out sneakers and backpack. Trying to balance himself before the train was swallowed by the East River, he took out something from his Jansport and pieced together what turned out to be a clarinet.

Ah, one of them subway musicians, I told myself. Unlike the others before him who I have rode with to Queens a countless times on the F or the V, this kid seemed better dressed and did not seem to be in need. I would actually rather have him on my train than the malodorous homeless or jobless who terrorize subway riders from time to time. Somehow musicians like this kid entertain the commuting folk as they make their home after a hard day’s work.

This kid who just boarded fidgeted with his instrument before starting off with something familiar. It was the love theme from the 1971 film “The Summer of 42” which I have not heard in a long time. The first several notes brought me back to my childhood days in Magalang thousands of miles away where I first heard Michael Legrand’s Oscar Award-winning “Summer Knows,” from the music cassette tapes my Auntie Lita’s suitor Andy sent all the way from faraway Nigeria where he toiled as one of the Philippines's first manpower exports.

This was followed by two fast tunes that sounded familiar but whose titles escape me. Then he played the love theme from the “Godfather.” “Speak softly love and hold me warm against your heart. I feel your words the tender trembling moments start…” How can I forget one of the songs I used to play on the piano as I was growing up in Villa Angela. There is a chance that I could still probably play it. But then of course, the fingers are now more at home with my PC keyboard than with the old ivory keys.

I was hoping our teenage artist would continue leading me down memory lane but after the Roosevelt Island Station, he stopped. As was the ritual, when he finished, he pulled out a New York Yankees cap and held it out for the other passengers to throw in their change. All throughout I had my hand in my pocket. While listening to his performance, I quietly crinkled a dollar bill and when the time came, I smiled and handed it to him.

Somehow, he reminded me of Eyron, my 10- year-old and his clarinet and the fact that I will be picking him up from his music lessons when I reach home. I just wish that when he grows up, Eyron, who, aside from the clarinet, is also learning to play the keyboard and the drums, will not end up on the F Train like the kid who just rendered a fine performance before me.