Lucy on the Orange Line


Photo courtesy of Apryl Skies
A young, red-haired woman, more auburn than parting-of-the-sea, with graceful shoulders & blue eyes, gazes over the heads of uncaring passengers while a dog-eared copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula dangles from her fingertips. The novel falls to the subway floor, which she quickly rescues, as she wipes the cover with apologetic gestures. She flips through the chapters, her eyes linger on certain passages. I watch her insert herself into the pages of the novel, & become Lucy, the poor dying prey of Dracula. I watch Lucy watch herself in the blurry window as she bares her alabaster throat in submission to his will – & then, watch her fall victim to daydreamus interruptus as the train stops at Hollywood & Vine. We ascend the steps into an eerie twilight enhanced by layers of smog and neon splendor. I watch her tuck the beloved Dracula into her purse & travel west down the boulevard past a succession of bums, Iowan tourists & two young Scientologists who lovingly clean the glass doors of their lair. As she saunters north on Vine, a dark, handsome man comes out of the shadows, smiles like Béla Sr., grabs her by the waist, kisses her hand & says, “Hey, Sheila, let’s go grab a beer.”