A small plump man sits on a hard red plastic chair. His face is a kind and innocent, resembling a puppy pug dog. Round rosy cheeks extend into a forming double chin. A cap on the old man’s head has a symbol of a baseball team. His soft brown eyes stare lazily into the yellow hard plastic chair in front of him. On the man’s torso is a dull green light jacket, baggy khaki cargo pants, and sneakers. The small man fiddles and twirls his thumbs as if he were thinking about something again and again just to make sure it stayed the same.
Next to the small plump man stands a old tall lanky man holding onto one of the many parallel subway poles. His face is stern, almost that of an old sea horse realizing he was underwater. His eyes dart in and out of the subway, looking for something. The outfit on this man is what a businessman would wear when he is not in a suit. The old man resembled a raspberry popsicle in his clean crisp red polo shirt and clean white pants. On his feet were black shoes that were so dark, it could be counted for as perfect black.
There is no one else on the subway train.
The small man shakes his head like he did not believe ice cream existed once it was described to him. He looks up to the old man and asks “Where we goin’?”.
The tall man grumbles. His eyes still dart in and out of the subway.
A moment passes. “Sooo where we goin’?” the small man questions again.
“Where are we growing?”
“No, goin’!”
The old man pauses.
“Listen, I can not really understand what you are saying.”
“I jus’ wanna know where we ‘goin’.”
“What?” the old man snaps.
“Goin’! Goin’!”
“Are you trying to make the sound a mallet makes when it hits a gong?”
The small man opens his mouth to respond with his index finger pointing upward, but quickly decides against responding by closing his mouth. He looks down and puts his hands together to fiddle with his thumbs once more.
Silence passes for the next several minutes, and the tall man continues to look in and out of the subway.
The small man interrupts the silence, but still is looking at the floor.
“Wha’ does i’ loo’ like?” the small man mumbles.
“What does what look like?”
“The thing you’re lookin’ for”
“I’m not licking for anything.”
“O’ course not”
“But if you want something to lick, please just let it be the ice cream back in the shop.”
“I’m not lookin’ for something to lic’, I’m wonderin’ what you are lookin’ for.”
The old man turns to face the small man, and the old man blazes a stare into the small man eyes.
The small man recedes the eye contact saying, “I’m only askin’! I’m only askin’!”
“Masking what!?”
“I’m maskin’ what I am askin’ for…” the small man mutters.
The old man picks up his head quickly and frowns like an old sea horse that found a bale of hay to actually be a sea anemone.
“Please talk better, I know you can…”
The eyes of the old man dart again from inside the subway to outside, and the small man returns to fiddle his thumbs.