Careless Whispers in the Enchanted Forest of my Dreams

It started out like any other day. I woke up in a hurry, scrambled to find an ironed shirt and 10 million items to stuff in my bag (headphones, novel, laptop, gym shorts, etc) in a race against time to make my daily pilgrimage from the island to the mainland, the ritual known as the morning commute to work.

But this was no ordinary day. The 7:45 train to Rahway was a double-decker, a sudden change from the usual relic-from-the-70’s-stinky-leather fleet of trains owned by NJ transit. As I made my way through, I was consumed with the sights and sounds of the slick, assembly-line-fresh train, and my eyes watered. You see, double-deckers are forever associated in my mind with my magical summer in Fire Island.

Have you ever visualized paradise? I never quite did, I gave up heaven some time ago, along with other childhood fantasies. But now I can describe it as vividly as I saw it: a lush, green, sunken Forest by the ocean. The dense growth hid the beautiful wooden summer houses and the hordes of foxes and deer and beautiful boys roamed its grounds; an enchanted forest of mysterious creatures. Fire Island means the world to me because it was on its shores that I decided to make New York my home. The love/hate relationship I had with the Guliani-sanitized city evolved into pure affection the moment my feet touched its dunes. I was in love for the first time, with my life, amidst such beauty (and I’m not talking about the trees. Yes, they were beautiful too, and trees are exotic where I come from, but if I was danderphilic, I would have moved to Yellow Stone Park) In a sense, Fire Island was New York’s saving grace.

But fast-forward to February, the cold, cruel winter has taken its toll on my mood and I suffer silently from seasonal depression. It’s funny how a smell or sound can swiftly transport us to another world, where things were once brighter and happier. Where laughs were genuine and handsome strangers readily became friends over a game of volley or a Mojito. Yes, I saw heaven and it had Disco Balls aplenty.

I was spared a similar walk-down-memory-lane in the evening when my manager offered me a ride home instead of a misrable train ride. Crammed in a car with two other co-workers and an excellent manager with v. questionable driving skills (his speed varied with the tempo of the songs playing in the car, and it ranged from sickingly-fast to oh-my-god-were-gonna-die fast). I phased in and out of their conversation, which was virtually always about a. Work b. Marriage or C. India (they're all FOB) topics which aren't dear to my heart. instead I stared out at the clear sky and wondered why you can only see the stars in Jersey.

Then, "Careless Whispers" came on the airwaves and all mundane conversation subsided to give way for something magical. The car radiated with a sudden joie-de-vivre, as if Geroge Michael was everyone's childhood friend. My manager showed-off his mastery of the lyrics, my Team Lead flexed her vocal chords in inticipation of those high notes, and the third guy, uncertain who George michael really is, compensated for his lack of cultural capital by amenating an unusual humming sound. In unison, we sang (or mummbled) the chorus line:

"I'm never gonna dance again
guilty feet have got no rhythm
though it's easy to pretend
I know you're not a fool

Should've known better than to cheat a friend
and waste the chance that I've been given
so I'm never gonna dance again
the way I danced with you"

I went home, played the song and cried.