Polka in the Station

Every morning I take the El from 46th street to 15th. I'm normally half asleep. I usually am slight jostled by a number of people who are also half asleep and on their way to work. Some hold onto travel mugs of coffee as if they are lifelines. Others sleep away the commute, having trained their bodies to wake up at a certain stop. There is an order to things, although it is not spoke of. There are general rules about not touch other people (unless its really crowded then all bets are off). Together a mass of people get on and off and shuffle their way up stairs and down stairs and through turnstiles and around 'slow' people. Migration lines form, as if we were cars and there were lines dividing the lanes. Most morning I join in this migration from apartment to station to train to station to work, like a mindless ant. I'm following a predetermined, set path. I will follow basically the same path every work day with little deviation.

Now normally there are people playing music of some kind or singing in 15th street station. The acoustics in the station are amazing for music. I'm used to hearing music and walking past, with little thought. If I notice a certain song I might smile and find myself singing it later. It I hear something really horrible I steer clear and walk faster. I don't normally have time to stop and take it in, but I enjoy the change it brings to the monotonous commute. Then there is the man playing the polka on the accordion. 

Polka is not something that I grew up with, nor is it my favorite music. However, for some reason, I truly look forward to hearing it every morning. The older, slightly balding, man sits at the bottom of one staircase I go past every day. He sits and plays, truly lost in his music. Nodding thanks to anyone who drops a coin in his hat. Every morning I get off the train and join the throng of people pushing their way up the stairs. I get to the top of the stairs, get out through the turnstiles and start trying to hear the music. Normally I can't hear it till I'm almost to the staircase I have to go down. Every time I pass the accordion player I think of every one of us 'ants' stopping, taking a partner, and dancing the polka. 

I had got so used to this occurrence that I had not really thought of how much that little spark, in a rather dull morning routine, made my day. So yesterday when the accordion player was absent, I missed him. I wanted the polka, I wanted the whine of the accordion, the playful jump of the music. I wanted more then ever for everyone to just stop and break out in dance. No, I do not know the Polka, but man, most mornings I wish I did. And this morning I was very grateful that the accordion player was back playing at his normal spot. Now all I have to do is learn the Polka.