Mayhem in the PM

Oh, supremely worse. Crowded, packed, equal parts douchey and squallid. There's the yuppie-in-training leaning the entire length of his back up to the head against the pole, reading a little too rapt the Esquire with Brad Pitt on the cover, while a filthy, drunk-looking laborer looks on with disgust our from under his do-rag, wedged preposterously tight into a middle seat between two scowling Russian matriarchs returning with gigantic Century 21 bags strewn about their ankles. Next stop: holiday shoppers, droves. Crap. Jostling a-plenty. Frantic and frazzled, a youngish mother catches the closing doors with her tubercular infant, the pasty father bumbloing in tow with stroller unintentionally unfurled. The child coughs continually. The future Mrs. Pitt scowles, the laborer scowles, and I retreat further down the car. And further down is worse. Vying for my attention we have a dishevled Sunset Park hood-rat blasting bad Southern rap and singing along ineptly (every third word, with accent) up against a big, tough-looking saxaphonist, the angriest saxaphonist and no Roger Clinton. Of course both are dancing. Fortune serves me a seat. I sit, pull out a book, begin to read. It's Jim Thompson and I just happen open it in the thick of an argument in the West Texas sheriff's office over whether or not n-----s have souls. The prevailing contention is that they do not. Of course, the rather large black woman sitting next to me happens to be reading over my shoulder. She finds it less than amusing, nor does her rather large husband when she explains it to him in a state of great agitation. Closed goes the book, out comes the journal, and this.

Thursday

Early morning cracktastrophe!

Jeez. Two women almost certainly from the homeless shelter in the old armory; they look middle aged, they're almost certainly my age. These are big women, lively women, and loud. And it gets worse: someone, from kind heart, surplus, or want of a questionable blowjob, has bestowed upon them matching discmen. Maybe all the gals got 'em. These ones suuuure do. And they like em. I know becasue they're talking about how much they like 'em. They're showing off for the crowd, dancing, singing along, swapping, CDs, and maintaining a semblence of conversation over their respective music. I hear lots of "Giiiiirrrrllllll...." One is much bigger than the other, but their shape is identical, hair identical. It's only a question of scale. Obviously, the bigger one is in charge. No matter, the littler one is in charge of the rest of the train. I'm afraid, not for safetly necessarily. No, it's more ethereal than that, but I'm scared. Suddenly one, the bigger one, slaps the other in the chest.

"Girl, this here mah JOINT!"

The littler one removes her headphones and leans in to listen. Suddenly there's an exlposion of activity, movement, both dancing, gyrating at 7 fucking 30 AM on the subway:

"It's gettin' hot in here! So take off all your clothes!"

Jesus, no!

Tuesday

So there's quite a queer couple sitting directly across the aisle. He's a pretty big guy, both tall and fattish, sporting some especially ugly white sneakers sticking out from under what appear to be marching-band pants but are more likely security guard pants. I'm digging the garish gold stripe. His size is accentuated by an oversized puffy parka and general garrulousness, loud and lively but not in that Williamsburg way. Oh, and then there's the fact that his seatmate, she's a dwarf. Now, I don't mean short, and I don't mean midget or hobbit or whatever, but a genuine, facially featured, 2 1/2 feet tall, the movie Willow ("You are great!"), honest-to-goodness dwarf. And for all that, she's quite put together: nicely straightened hair, complementary make-up and modest jewelry, conservative dress right down to her tasteful platform shoes waaaaay up from the floor. She's real soft-spoken too, and the contrast accentuates her neighbor's boisterousness or at least the impression thereof.

Goddammit. I was going to try for some lesson-learned thing here, complimentary relationships or some O'Henry twist, but this youngish wanna-be hipster (Yes! Not even a real hipster douchebag; just someone who wants to be one!) just got on at 14th Street singing along overly loud to whatever limp-wristed crap is blaring from the requisite earbuds, and I totally lost my train of thought.