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Unformatted text preview: Shweta Patro Due 11/30/09 English 1: Evocation Piece 7:00 PM. I am under the Queensboro Bridge, nearly speed walking up an incline in pencil point heels. The bridge is steel, utilitarian. It has no ornaments, except for the skateboarders on the far side of bridge, slowly going down the sloping cement. I can feel the tight strap of the shoe chafing against my pinky toe. If I slowed down, I might save my foot from a blister, but at this point, slowing down is out of the question. I have to get to the Port Authority and catch the 7:21 express to Brooklyn to be ready for a family dinner at 8. I have not seen or talked to my family in three weeks, so this dinner cannot be missed. Normally, the trip from the Upper East Side to Port Authority takes at least forty minutes. I start jogging. There are little white feather clouds suspended in the vibrant blue sky. They are protests against the cacophony of the city they cover, exhibiting the candor only nature has. They have no constraints, except for gravity and heat. At 7:10, I reach Lexington and 63 rd . I reach into my bag and pull out my Metrocard. As I swipe it, the turnstile lets loose a cacophonous whine; the turquoise digital display reads Insufficient Fare. I sigh angrily, filling my lungs with noxious, putrid, grey-brown subway air, as I rush over to the machine to refill my Metrocard. I cough over to the machine, fighting the clouds of smoke emitted by two hobos and a businessman. I make war with the pall of smoke, and the hobo says something, a joke. The businessman laughs, then turns away, looking again at his iPhone for nonexistent unread messages, his social status and his dignified air at risk....
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- Spring '11