Subway Stories

The train comes quickly, in a hurry to get everyone to work on time – the train is less forgiving when it comes to getting its patrons to bars at midnight, but one can only be so demanding on the G train.  We cram in like that fish that comes in tin cans, my shoulders rubbing against the shoulders of two other people, openly inviting those bed bugs everyone keeps talking about.

Over the white girl emo music floating through my cerebral cortex, I hear the disgruntled bass line of an angry schizophrenic.  I check my iPod.  Nope, not a remix.  I press pause and hear the following:

Better start being nicer!  I hope yo cell phone blow up in yo face, motha fu#$a!

My eyes bulge wide in they way that they do when I’m humored/ terrified.  Though I’m sure people this openly insane would most likely have a hard time putting together a bomb if they even had the means to acquire the materials, the thought still crosses my mind that if they could, they would… or at least they could start shanking people in the name of the economical wreaking of havoc.

After openly sharing his feelings about being affronted (my thought is that perhaps he was bumped into by someone tapping away on their Blackberry), Crazy Man goes into a political monologue.

Tell Bush to suck my d#^k!  Eat my sh@%!  F*&k George Bush!  I’ll knock his ass out.

Given the political climate as of late, I would think that if he wanted to make more of a stir, he might have joined the anti-Obama bandwagon.  I haven’t heard a rant about Bush in, well, about two years.  The next time I see him I will hand over an issue of The Economist so he can stay up to date.  Such things are important when it comes to pissing people off.

Crazy Man also has some personal thoughts on the international melting pot – or “salad bowl” as some have called it – that is New York City.

F$%cking Indians getting all the white bitches.  F^&cking hoes.

I didn’t realize that this was a citywide epidemic, but I am happy to have acquired the knowledge.  I share a look with a scary-looking gentleman sporting tattoos in many visible places, including three large stars across his neck, who is – to my surprise – also disturbed by the state of current events on this train.

From here, Crazy Man segues into childcare, etc.

I’m impregnating all the hoes.  I’m gonna provide for yo babies.  Don’t be ashamed if I take care of yo babies.  You can’t tell me shi^%.  Gimme some money.  Show me the money!  You tight mothaf%#!s.

If he offers to take care of all these bastard children, he should at least be able to pay for them himself.  But what do I know about these matters…

In an effort to better acquaint himself with his fellow New Yorkers, Crazy Man provides us with his back-story.

I’m an undahcovah agent.  I’m an undahcovah agent and I got the right to be hostile!  I was born in ’59.  Hernando de Soto the third.  And my stage name is Benjamine.

If this isn’t a performance, I’m not sure what is.  That being said, I’ll surely purchase tickets to his main act.

 

 

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