The Merits of the Metric System
G Train - Brooklyn, NY
“I’m gonna go back to the first place and see if they have it again tomorrow.” The little boy with the curly hair sat on the seat to the right of me, he looked to be about eight or nine. His sister, a sullen pre-teen, sat to my left, his father stood between them in front of me. As the boy talked he looked up at his dad, his big front teeth protruded from his lips even when his mouth was closed.
“You’re gonna try again?” His father held the bar above my head for balance, he seemed old to have such young children, his graying hair tucked under a crumpled black baseball cap, his posture a little hunched and his voice sounded tired.
“Yeah. I’m gonna go back to the first place. But, I always feel a little like, a little guilty when I go into a store or somethin and ask for somethin and they don’t have it and then I just leave.” The boy’s energy pushed into his words, so each popped like a bubble as he discussed this uncomfortable experience.
“Don’t feel guilty son. That’s business. That’s just business.” The father senses his discomfort and attempts to impart a lesson.
“I’ve got math tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, but it’s really easy stuff. Like Kilometers and centimeters and stuff… well actually now that I say it out loud, that doesn’t sound so easy,” the little boy laughed nervously, and continued, “but easi-ER, because today we studied it.”
“That’s good.”
“Like I learned that a kilometer is reeeaaallly big, like a mile,” his arms stretched out into the aisle of the train to show how big.
“Even bigger than a mile. It’s not the same, though. We don’t use that system anyway,” his father dismissed the study of this system. His voice still low as if trying to balance the loudness of his son.
“No, you know we’re the only ones that use feet and inches in the whole world!? We’re the only ones.” The boy served his father’s disbelief right back.
“You gonna move to Europe then?” His father countered.
“What?”
“You’ll be ready to move to Europe then.”
“No, I’m not movin to Europe!”
“Well, you never know. What if Newt Gingrich gets elected? Then we’ll be outta here.”
“Haha. We’ll move to Europe for the four years if he’s president, then come back?” I was surprised that such a young boy would be concerned with something like presidential politics, but maybe I just forget what it’s like to be his age.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
The little boy paused to think about this proposition.
“I dunno. I think I’d rather stay here,” another pause, “with my frieeends.” His lips spread over his large teeth as he said the word, stretching it in his mouth, so that he sat there smiling sheepishly at his father, considering this life of parental freedom.
“‘With yer frieeeeends?’” the father mocked gently, “You sound like a hillbillie.”
“Huh?”
“Nothin,” he ate his unkind words.
“I could stay with..hmm..” he considered his options, “I could stay with Colton … or Ross. No, not Ross. Me and Ross and two babies! No way.” Ross was out.
“Chaos.” The father agreed.
“But I could live with Colton for four years while you live in Europe. Colton doesn’t have a brother or a sister,” he thought of what this could be like, “Or a father.”
“Well, he has a father.”
“No, they got divorced. They’re divorced now.” Again the boy shocked me with his easy ability to bring up such adult subjects.
“Well that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a father still.”
Though I guess no subject can ever be strictly adult.
“Next stop Myrtle-Willoughby,” the crackly subway PA announced.
“One more stop! Our stop is the next one.” The little boy jumped from his seat and grabbed his father’s hand, staring to his silent older sister, plugged into headphones still on the seat next to me and motioned for her to join them.
“Yup, everyday.”
They exited the train together, the little boy running ahead on the platform, while the other two moved slowly behind.
