Well hello! It's time for the twelfth installment of our favorite deconstruction of the horrors of public transit!
There have been so many incidences since our last chapter. Most notable, I think, was the woman sitting on the A train in a puddle of what I'm pretty sure was her own urine, smoking a cigarette. But that really sort of goes around the funny dial far enough to almost come round to being sad? So, I'm just going to leave it at that.
Be that as it may, there have still been lots of wonderful characters, and we've plenty to discuss. As we all know, my loathing of commutes is well documented. Subway rides in general are not all that bad, but during rush hours? Well, let’s put it this way: there are enough jackbags and asshats in the world such that they compose roughly 93.745% of the population as a whole—this a well-documented statistical fact. The subway is perhaps THE greatest—in terms of quantity, not quality—gathering point for people in New York. And when it’s packed quite literally to the gills long about 5:15 PM on a Wednesday, and then you factor in the aforequoted statistic…well, you get the idea. That’s a LOT of jackbags and asshats.
All of which is to say, as always, that rush hour commutes on New York’s glittering subway is a treasure trove of pleasures rivaled only by, say, a root canal without anesthesia, ingesting rotten meat raw, or the music—nay, general existence—of Katy Perry.
But every now and then—every once in a bright neon cornflower blue moon—comes a tiny ray of sunshine on an otherwise debilitatingly infuriating commute. Not long ago, one such of these rays of sunshine greeted me on the uptown B train.
***************************************************************************************
Fucking Fabulous Proud Black Woman Who Is Still, For the Time Being, At Least I Think So, Very Much a Man, and also, secondarily, but I suppose, really, primarily, as he ends up being the point of the story I guess, Obviously Homophobic Cop Who Thinks It’s Either Cute, Funny or Both That He’s Homophobic
There I sat, choking back my rage at the stupid woman who had the unmitigated gall to sit in the seat between me and another person—because, hi: we’re all in this together and we all know that whoever designed these three-seat benches had, like, either Japanese people or individuals with achondroplagia dwarfism in mind. But the simple fact of the matter is THREE PEOPLE DO NOT FIT COMFORTABLY ON THESE BENCHES. They do not.
Technically, yes, by the laws of like, freedom and whatever, you’re entitled to utilize the middle seat. But most don’t ACTUALLY do so. Why? BECAUSE IT MAKES EVERYONE MISERABLE. Unless you are a stick insect, there is NOT enough room. There just isn’t. There’s not. There is not enough room. Not enough. Too little. It’s that fucking simple. So get your ass up and stand like everyone else. I was fucking here first and if you wanted to sit down, you should have either gotten a job farther downtown so the train wouldn’t be full like I did, OR you should have left work early before the crowds. I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules and I didn’t design the seats. But that’s how it fucking WORKS. So stand the fuck up, because I am NOT scrunching my freakishly wide Ostrobothnian shoulders for your benefit.
Anyway. So there I sat, fuming with rage at the probably perfectly nice 60-something lady beside me who clearly does NOT know the fucking RULES (which I have invented in my head but whatever EVERYONE follows, except for those that don’t), wanting desperately, each time she sighs with exasperation that my freakishly wide shoulders are crowding her, to turn to her and spit, “Suck it, whore, I was here first,” when what do my ears hear?
Why, music! Sweet, sweet music! CeCe Peniston's “Finally” to be exact! Sung in a femininely pronounced but masculinely voiced soul-sister croon, complete with ad-libbed “Mmm hmm”s and “Yes girl!”s peppered about.
Of course, immediately, I said to myself, “I simply MUST find the batshit crazy mother fucker who is the origin of such sweet music,” and I immediately began scanning the crowd for a homeless mental patient wearing a ballet costume and one boot and his/her face stuck through the handles of a shopping bag s/he has effectively fashioned into a billowing plastic nun’s habit.
Instead, I was greeted with a Fucking Fabulous Proud Black Woman Who Is Still, For the Time Being, At Least I Think So, Very Much a Man, dressed TO THE NINES in long, coiffed, flowing weave, giant gold bamboo earrings, a skin tight Technicolor-printed wrap top, ginormous blinged-out handbag, bootylicious skinny jeans and heels so high they would strike fear into the heart of the Naomi Campbellest of Naomi Campbells, but which clearly weren’t any kinda no THANG to her. She was, in fact, the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.
There FFPBWWISFTTBALITSVMAM stood, all statuesque 6’4” of her (though to be fair, a good five inches of that was shoes), rockin’ on her heels in the doorway, jammin’ the fuck OUT to “Finally,” adding her own distinctive flourish to the “Yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeAAAH, owwww” part, without a care in the world, and only deviating from her siren song to declare her own supremacy with such bon mots as, “Ooh, honey that’s RIGHT y’all, JayLisa in the house! That’s Jay to my momma and JayLisa to you! Yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeAAHHH, oww,” and, upon new people entering the train, “C’mon in honey, Jay-Lisa yo conductah this evenin’! Woo wooooo!”
She was, in fact, a delight. Of course, there was an array of reactions to JayLisa. Some were afraid. Some were confused. Some shook their heads in aggravated disbelief. Some laughed—both with and at her. As for me, she made me beam. I wanted to befriend her, to know her story, and to have her whisper to me—and only me—the secrets of the universe she held in that giant handbag. I instantly adored her in the way that one adores one's own offspring. Possibly moreso.
As we approached 103rd St., she threw open her handbag and tossed her iPod inside, loudly declaiming, “Ooh honey! Lemme quit singin’ and get my face right! You know? A girl got look RIGHT when she’s getting off the train! Show folks how it’s DONE!” and then cackled at her own cleverness as she began an in-depth makeup touch-up. Having abandoned her iPod, she simply sang “Finally” to herself—and she wasn’t half bad at it, if you ask me.
We pulled into my stop, 116th, and to my delight I saw her prepare to deboard the train as well. We were neighbors!! The doors opened, and JayLisa narrated for us. “Ooh Lord JESUS lemme get off this TRAIN, got people to SEE!—ooh, go 'head honey!” She stopped to let an old lady fight her way out of the crowd, who then stopped to let JayLisa pass in front of her—whether out of fear or politeness I couldn’t tell. “No go ‘head baby, you a grandmotha! Everyone else can wait for YOU honey! That’s right!” JayLisa continued.
As she made it out the doors, she began singing again—“Yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeAAHHH, owww”—as she…not walked…not sauntered…slinked? I guess? Or slunked? Toward the gate, her handbag slung over her broad shoulders, singing all the way as she passed a fat, lazy NYPD officer, Obviously Homophobic Cop Who Thinks It’s Either Cute, Funny or Both That He’s Homophobic, supposedly guarding the platform and waiting to get on the train. The rest of us passed, some bewildered, some tickled, onto the platform.
I’m not sure what my face must have been telegraphing—maybe some awkward mix of both bewilderment and…ticklement or whatever. But whatever it was, it caught the eye of the cop. And as neantherthal-esque, lizard-brained straight men so often do, he sized me up and assumed me to be a compatriot.
I don’t know why this is, exactly. I’ve been told that, as just a face in a crowd, I don’t come off particularly gay. I certainly don’t dress particularly gay, and I’m by no means a slight man…so I suppose at first glance, I appear as simply an Average Joe who’s just a tiny bit better than most Average Joes at putting together outfits? And who wears, on the average, nicer shoes? Or something? I’m not sure. But if there’s a Neanderthal in attendance, and he hasn’t heard me speak yet, he will undoubtedly assume I am his kin.
And so it went with fat, balding, obesity-sweat-covered OHCWTIECFOBTHH, who regarded JayLisa with disgust, caught my eye, and said derisively and conspiratorially to me, “Jesus, I bet THAT was fun,” his voice dripping with contempt, so clearly and articulately telegraphing a sentiment of, “Wow, I bet that disgusting comdemned butt-fucking freak of nature was a real treat.”
After momentarily confirming—with sadness and disappointment—that JayLisa was out of earshot, because I was so hoping she’d heard him because she did NOT seem the type to not stick up for herself, I set my eyes on the cop’s with an icy glare and said, with contempt and a tiny edge of defensive belligerence, “Yeah, actually. She was fantastic.” He looked away, but I kept staring until the doors closed.
You fuck with JayLisa, you fuck with me.
*******************************************************************************************************************************
Disgusting Bitch Who Felt Entitled to Not Move Out of the Way For a Man in a Wheelchair
Dear Madam:
I don’t know what in the everloving HELL has happened to you in your life to make you so bitter. We all have our reasons, and far be it from me to tell people what to do. (Actually not true. Near be it from me to tell people what to do. It's all I do. If people would just LISTEN, we wouldn't have the problems in the world we have today, we'd all live in harmony, fat, calories and carbs wouldn't exist, only ugly men would be straight, and Carrie Prejean's implants would spontaneously combust on live television. But whatever.)
However. If I may, I’d like to give you a few pointers, a handful of things I think you might want to tuck away that might be instructive.
1—OH MY FUCKING GOD YOU ARE NOT PERMITTED TO NOT MOVE YOUR FUCKING STROLLER OUT OF THE WAY FOR A MAN IN A WHEELCHAIR.
Seriously, DBWFETNMOOTWFAMIAW. Not okay. Cuz see, here’s the thing: THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS. Yes, he stunk a little. Fine. Fair. However, let’s revisit this very quickly:
THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS.
Which means he is UNABLE—not unwilling, see, UNABLE—to maneuver around things like your stroller.
UNABLE. As in INCAPABLE. As in CANNOT.
And while I understand that your baby was asleep and you didn’t want to wake her, seriously? THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS.
Also? There are what? One in maybe every six or seven subway stations that are actually wheelchair accessible? Which means if that dude misses his stop, he can’t just get off at the next one and double back like the rest of us. No no. He has to go SIX OR SEVEN, then get in an ELEVATOR, then get in ANOTHER ELEVATOR, then wait for the train, and then go BACK SIX OR SEVEN stops to where he started.
Again: THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS.
2—Given the aforementioned items, most importantly the fact that THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS, I don’t feel that your reaction to his ramming into your stroller was appropriate.
Sure, from your side of the story, the dude was…well, ramming his wheelchair into your stroller. But see, you gave him no other OPTION. Why?
Because THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS.
That’s why. And he needed to get off the train. And your response was, quote, “Naw you dumb muthafucka I AIN’T goan MOVE MY DAMN STROLLAH, my baby is SLEEPIN’ and don’t you TOUCH MY MUTHAFUCKIN STROLLAH MUTHAFUCKAH!”
So, you see, DBWFETNMOOTWFAMIAW, you really gave him no recourse but to ram his wheelchair into your stroller, as THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS.
Also, I don’t find it appropriate that you punched him when he called you a “BITCH” (in all caps, I feel), because frankly? There’s no other word to describe you at that moment. Well, there is one, but he was respectful enough not to say it.
Also? When you hit him again when he told you, “You can suck my big black dick, BITCH!”, I didn’t feel that was really appropriate either because, you know, given what you’d just done to him, you deserved far worse. As I’ve said, THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS.
But I almost felt like what you said in response was even worse than you punching him. Because while I found your retort, “Nah, nigga, you can suck MY big black dick, BITCH!” to be one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard a woman say, your taunts of, “What the fuck you goan do, NIGGA? You goan STAND UP on yo damn STUMPS and SMACK A BITCH?!” were a touch over the line. I’d elaborate further on the other things you said, but, you know, this is supposed to be at least LACED with humor? And the rest of what you said? Well, it’d kinda ruin the mood. Because it was pretty awful.
THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS.
3—I don’t have children. But I’m pretty sure I don’t need to have children to understand that a 5-year-old boy witnessing his mother berate and punch a wheelchair-bound man on a subway train is relatively traumatizing for a toddler. Judging by your child’s face, I feel I’m right.
And while I do applaud your general sentiment that, “See son? This is why I tell you you gotta do good in school! So you can grow up and get you a decent job so you ain’t have to deal with this muh-fuckin BULLSHIT! Dat’s why mama tell you YOU NEED TO DO WHAT YOU NEED TO DAMN DO!”, I sort of feel like you bellowing it at the top of your lungs is going to, you know, moreso like, SCARE THE EVER-LOVING SHIT OUT OF HIM than it is like, you know, going to INSPIRE HIM to rise above or whatever. I mean, you know? Just a shot in the dark.
Also? It didn’t really make sense because technically, what you implied was that doing well in school will keep your son from becoming a legless man in a wheelchair, which, you know…isn’t true? Really? So…
4—Finally:
THAT DUDE HAD NO LEGS.
*******************************************************************************************************************************
Fat Homeless Jagoff Shilling For Scam “Charity”
This doesn’t really have anything to do with the subway, but it just pisses me off. And they're usually found just outside subway stations, so technically? Hence, whilst we’re bitching…
This guy:
and his ilk are all over this city. My fellow New Yorkers, I know you can identify them immediately: the “representatives” of the United Homeless Organization.
The United Homeless Association claims to be a homeless charity. However—Google it, I’m not just being a dick here—all it really is is an organization that provides homeless people with empty water-cooler bottles in which to collect change and a logo to affix to the front so that their efforts to collect change from passersby can technically be called “donations,” lending legitimacy to what many feel is an illegitimate way to make a living.
Personally, I agree. Oh also? The Better Business Bureau refuses to recognize them as a proper charity because UHO won't submit to the BBB's standards and won't divulge its financial records.
I'm not a homeless hater, and I'm not the sort of person who, as a blanket policy, doesn't give change to beggars--not that, in my opinion, there's anything wrong with being that sort of person. Because there's not. Regardless, I'm not a homeless hater. I help them when I can, sometimes with coins, sometimes with a sammitch. But this shit is bunk and I smell a rat!
A group who gives homeless people a water-cooler bottle to beg with and then takes a $15 cut of whatever proceeds said homeless person makes (which is how UHO works) and lets him keep the rest is NOT a charity! YOU ARE LYING TO ME, SIR, AND I WON'T HAVE IT. Also, since you're a proper charity, can I get a tax form for my $.63 donation? Cuz I want my damn write-off!
But all of this is beside the point. What REALLY chaps my ass is their pitch:
"Juuuuuust a penny. Juuuuust a penny. Nobody should have to go home hungry tonight."
Go home how now? Go home hungry did you say?
Look, you may be homeless, and many other things, but you are DEFINITELY NOT HUNGRY. You are fucking GINORMOUS. You are one of the most obese people I’ve ever seen, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to give your lying, cheating ass a red cent, because on the hunger front you seem to be doing JUST FINE.
So take your “charity”-issued water-cooler bottle and ram it up your ever-widening ass.
*******************************************************************************************************************************
Music Guy Who Plays a Casio and Is Backed Up by Animatronic Fly Girls
Again, the subway—and, at times, this city—makes you want to go on a shooting rampage. But I find that juuuust about the moment you reach the point where you start seeking out belltowers from which to fire your rifle into a public crowd, along comes a sweet, sweet dawn in your homicidal night.
Sometimes, it’s JayLisa. Others? Well other times, it’s Music Guy Who Plays a Casio and Is Backed Up by Animatronic Fly Girls. And thank God for him. Here he is:
There’s nothing more to say, really. He sits in the 34th St./Herald Sq. station and plays his casio harmonica/keytar hybrid, and this bizarre doll--along with a few others perched on his Casio, one of whom plays a saxophone!--dances to the beat. For this he collects coins. I always give him a whole dollar. (Sidebar: OH MY GOD I never noticed until looking at this photo just now that he has CDs for sale!!!) Because breakdancing and violin playing, that’s entertainment.
But this? This is fucking ART, people. Mind-bending, soul-healing ART.
Entertainment entertains. But art heals souls. And there’s a difference.
Comments