You take the time to shuffle the deck while riding the “L” train from 8th Avenue and 14th Street to New Lots/Van Sinderen and the old Brooklyn your dad bent your ear over time and again. The rumble and robotic screech of the MTA transports you and your curious spirit along with your fellow passengers who have rich lives and stories to tell just like you, but as soon as you board the subway in Manhattan, all of you become similar persons… everyone is in the same boat, so to speak. The train is yours. The shared, glazed-over egg tempera glow of every face that looks furtively away at any suggestion of eye contact, no matter how innocent it may be. The green-lit indifference that makes all of us appear to be underwater, the prevailing sadness, and fear of being studied under a microscope. The train is yours. Claustrophobia inevitably sets in, at least on some small scale. You want it all to be over now. You will willingly do this again not even half an hour later. You love The City. You always have, although this is the first time you have ever so much as set foot in this exotic concrete and steel frontier, this New York City. Being the youngest son of a native Brooklynite from Flatbush Avenue, it goes without saying that this is your birthright. The train is yours. Sketchpad and Rapidograph in hand, you also brought with you a level of courage, spontaneity, street savvy necessary to blend into any situation. The shared fear dissipates, you are okay with this. Twelve years later, you look back with contentment. The “L” train is still yours.