Mark Ronson – Glass Mountain Trust (feat. D’Angelo)
Ghost – I’m going with the name airbrushed on his black cargo Capris – crashed open the train car door, awakening me from my open-eyed sleep. My fellow passengers (except the passed-out, inebriated ones) and I slightly turned our necks, the bang having diverted our attention from drowsy meditation.
The towering wanderer meandered through the car, murmuring, “Excuse me, excuse me,” and softly shepherding human impediments with his hands and forearms. Ghost was hard to ignore. I squinted, trying to decipher his tattoos, black inked on slightly lighter skin. A cross was on his right eye socket with an unintelligible phrase imbued underneath. His left cheek was the home of a splotchy eagle, but I’m not much of a birdwatcher.
“This is the type of thing you see on your way from Newark at 1:30 at night,” sniggered some chick from Boston to her faceless girlfriends. She sucked. They all sucked. I’m glad I don’t have to see them ever again. At least, the appearance of Ghost ended the discussion concerning some guy named Aaron Klein. He’s cute, ya know? He’s funny, ya know?
Ghost pulled his shiny do-rag to the bridge of his nose, zoning out as we sped past the shadows of abandoned factories and the classic billowing smoke stacks of New Jersey. He rolled up the sleeves of his purple flannel, reached for the bar above him, and began doing pull-ups, alternating the side his head bobbed over on every lift.
We pulled into our station and Ghost landed on his Dunks just as the doors beeped and slid open. Exhausted figures exited and entered. Ghost didn’t turn or make notice of anyone, but ambled again through the car. The doors closed and the train lurched forward. I quickly clutched a pole as my feet slipped, and continued to observe our subject.
The door crashed open as I attempted to rub the torpor out of my eyes. Ghost was straddling the exposed threshold between the two cars, his collar flapping in the gale. I chuckled and looked down at my Keds. The ether was abandoned when I raised my glance. [Record Collection.]
Avery Raimondo is a kid. We like him pretty alright.