urban compassion

The doors of the uptown 1 train open and a mass of people step out onto the platform at the 50th Street station. We behold a figure sprawled out on a bench. He's largely ignored but several of us do cast a quick glance over our shoulders -- without breaking stride -- to check if he's still breathing. Upon seeing the slow rise and fall of his chest, it's determined that he's merely passed out. A palpable sense of relief washes over the crowd... mostly because now we don't have to interrupt the remainder of our commute by trying to find a cop, or more elusive, a helpful MTA employee.

I need a vacation.

subway sightings

Observed on the Brooklyn-bound F train yesterday:

1) A man picking his nose in my direction with a wild-eyed expression and a very belligerent digging style. His boogers meant business, apparently.

2) The same man then asked the guy next to him to watch his bag while he went between subway cars to either a) urinate, b) throw up, c) jerk off or d) quite possibly all of the above.

3) A man adorned in a king's costume complete with purple velvet cape, a bejeweled gold crown and a snazzy scepter just chillin' and staring out the window.

4) A woman thumbing through photos she had just picked up at CVS. Taken on actual film. With, you know, a 35mm camera.

What does it say about me that of the four scenarios, the last was the only one that elicited a modicum of shock? Getting film developed? I mean, who does that?

rod 'the bod' and god side-by-side on the r train

Every now and then, I encounter the same busker in the last car of the downtown R train. As I step onboard, she's usually about a verse or two into a very slow and soulful rendition of "Always and Forever." I hate that song but I love how she wraps her voice around it. Each note starts out with a pleasant nasally tone and is finished off with a delightful rasp. Her voice is ragged and worn. There's a lot of mileage on it. She has indeed lived a life.

She's elderly and blind but she still glides through the subway car with the greatest of ease relying on her cane and years of experience negotiating the different subway cars. She doesn't stumble or bump into people. Crowds part to let her through. She's respected and beloved. I've seen this same respect paid to the blind accordion player and a few doo-wop and five-part harmony groups that barrel through the busy trains interrupting conversations, naps and novels.

If someone is talented and/or not screaming about Jesus and urging us to repent, we don't tsk and sigh over the intrusion. Good schtick garners patience, polite smiles, outstretched money-bearing hands and unfettered access to the next car where the performer can charm the pants off the awaiting group of grizzled locals and bright-eyed tourists.

I saw the blind busker again on Wednesday night. As usual, she shuffled through the car singing, shaking her paper coffee cup and offering thanks each time she heard the clink of change deposited in it. And as usual, I took my seat, opened up my paper and drifted off into the day's Daily News headlines with her song serving as the bed music to my nightly ritual.

She finished up "Always and Forever" and segued into the next song. It was a new one, for me at least, in her repertoire. Normally I don't notice the transitions in her medleys but her choice of song and her placement of her words of thanks that night made me lower my newspaper and observe with undivided attention and an appreciative smile:

If you want my body and you think I'm sexy
(Thank you. God bless you!)
Come on, sugar, let me know
If you really need me just reach out and touch me
(God bless you!)
Come on, honey, tell me so

She was far out of my reach at that point but I'm totally giving her a twenty the next time I see her.

on why the newspaper guy must think i'm a complete asshole

Every morning on my way to work I buy a paper at a newsstand located on the Manhattan-bound 4/5 train platform at Borough Hall. The proprietor of the stand greets me every day with a, "Hello, my friend!"

I adore him. He has the best smile -- dazzling white teeth and just the hint of a dimple in his left cheek. His eyes twinkle with every grin. I look forward to my daily hello along with my copy of the Daily News.

Occasionally he gets forgetful and says to me, "Long time, no see, my friend!" Mind you, he had just greeted me like a lifelong buddy the day before. But no bigs. I don't take it personally. Perhaps I have one of those morphing faces where I look different from day-to-day? Or maybe he just has that many customers where he can't possibly keep track of all of us? To the latter I say, awesome! He works hard and deserves to have a bustling business.

But today I feel bad. Our exchange went a bit awry, you see. He went beyond the usual "Hello, my friend" and chatted a bit while handing me my change. Slightly jarred by the change in our routine and partially deaf due to the din of the subway station, I thought he said, "Yesterday's weather was very, very nice!" So I cheerfully replied, "I know! SOOOOO nice!"

He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion. I didn't understand his reaction but whatevs, who has time to quibble over such things? I wished him a good day and walked over towards the 2/3 platform.

Just as I was about to step on the train, my knees locked and I gasped. I was frozen in a moment of horror and mortification as his thickly-accented words echoed in my head with brand new clarity: "Your dress today is very, very nice!"

Clearly, my foggy, pre-caffeinated mind was operating on a 60-second logic delay. That is SO NOT what I heard during our encounter. Oh.my.God. His perplexed response made so much sense now. Oh.my.God. After he complimented me, I totally said, "I know! SOOOOO nice!" Oh.my.God. What must he think of me?!?!

Well, for one, he must think I'm a complete beaver. An immodest, stuck-up beaver, at that. Oh, the shame! I swear, I'm not a complete beaver! Only a partial one! And that behavior is usually tied to hormonal changes anyway! I'm usually very gracious and well-mannered!

What to do in a case like this? I guess I'll just have to swallow my shame. I can't very well go up to him tomorrow morning and say, "Hey, remember when you complimented my outfit yesterday and you thought I acted like a right cunt? Well, it turns out that my seemingly inappropriate response was due to the fact that I didn't understand you because of your REALLY heavy accent..."

I'll look like an even bigger asshole. And it just won't fly. I have to leave it alone. It's like thinking up a devastating comeback hours after being paid a nasty insult. If you don't issue the proper response within a few seconds, that window of opportunity is slammed and nailed shut forever. You cannot revisit it at a later time or date. You just can't.

Oooh, maybe there's a chance that newspaper guy will think today's snatch was his "Longtime, no see, my friend!" friend, not his daily, "Hello, my friend!" friend. I might be off the hook. Perhaps I can even plant the seed of mistaken identity with a well-executed, "Can you believe the nerve of that conceited asswipe yesterday? Some people have no couth." Desperate and sad, yes, but still, it's worth a shot.

more subway stories:

:: my left foot
:: on matrimony, new additions and accidental hand jobs
:: but when you shake your ass, they notice fast
:: abdicating the throne
:: a real-life bugle boy moment
:: it's hard to be humble

my left foot

A rather unfortunate incident befell me on the downtown R train on Saturday. I realize that by telling this story, I'm going to get crazy traffic as the result of some fucked-up search terms but I'll deal. I relayed this story to Jess and she did a quick mental inventory of all the weird New York stories she's heard and said, "You win." Are you ready?

I boarded the Brooklyn-bound train at Cortlandt Street for a rather short hop to Court Street. A very clean-cut young man got on at Rector Street and sat diagonally from me. Beyond the usual brief once-over, we paid each other no mind.

The train pulled into Whitehall Street and the doors opened and closed. The young man arose from his seat and headed toward the doors to exit even though they had already shut. I assumed he spaced out and missed his stop and was just standing there calculating how to minimize embarrassment and return to his seat without much fanfare. It's happened to me, I admit, and I know it's a bit humiliating. I thought he'd follow standard procedure and sheepishly return to his seat until the next stop.

I thought wrong.

I can't quite say he did the polar opposite of the expected behavior because, well... he just didn't, okay? Instead, he knelt down on the subway floor and struck a pose somewhat reminiscent of downward-facing dog. Normally I pay this sort of thing no mind but then he got on all fours and started sniffing the floor and under the seats like a bloodhound.

So I ruled out yoga.

Given the current climate in the city, I thought maybe he was looking for the best place to plant his explosives. The thought left my mind as quickly as it entered and I turned my head and gazed out the window at the black nothingness of the subway tunnel. My stop was next and I was not about to make eye contact with the crazy insane sniffing man if I could help it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he was now flat on the ground and slithering dangerously close to me. He looked up at me with a really creepy smile on his face. I considered getting up and moving but instead, I stayed put and mentally plotted just how I was going to haul ass off that train and out of the station the minute the doors opened. In my pretend scenario, I think I may have even executed a few potent karate punches and kicks to the face, ribs and groin respectively. I'm quite the bad ass in my imagination, you see.

And then he touched one of the toes on my left foot. My head snapped in his direction and I said firmly, "Don't touch me, please." And again, he flashed his creepy smile. I'm not easily frightened but this sent a chill down my spine. I looked the other way and counted down the seconds until this hellish ride was over.

And then, all of a sudden, he lunged at my feet burying his head into my left foot while sniffing and kissing my toes!!!!!!!!!

Yes, you read that right.

I screamed and kicked and grabbed his head by the ears to pry him off. He held his ground while I tried to shake free from his suction-like grip. I looked to my left and saw two men and yelled for help. They came running to my defense and yanked the toe sniffer off me just as the doors opened. I quickly thanked them and jumped off the train.

I looked back and he was still lying on the floor of the subway car looking up with that creepy smile on his face. I yelled, "YOU FUCKING FREAK!" before the doors closed and ran upstairs. I saw a cop and proceeded to tell him what happened. Naturally, I prefaced the story with, "You are NOT going to believe this!" The train was long gone so there was no way to catch him. Besides, I'm sure if I took this to court, a defense lawyer would argue that my feet were asking for it since they were "parading around half-naked in a [really cute] pair of black leather flip-flops [from Banana Republic] complete with a shade of pink nail polish reserved for floozies and trollops [Revlon: Blushed, in case you're interested.]"

For the time being, my feet will remain incognito. Yesterday, I wore my "Polish Man Sandals" to the protest. They're thick-soled with a brown oiled-leather upper. I call them that because if worn with black socks, pleated shorts and a wife beater, I could easily resemble the Polish men in my old neighborhood. With that said, the sandals are cute but just not in the way to set off perverts or heterosexual men. They also offer comprehensive coverage similar to the toe-engulfing mules I'm sporting today.

I've never quite understood foot fetishes. Feet really hold no appeal for me. Even when pedicured and well-groomed, they are a rather unsightly appendage, in my humble opinion. Although, I'm rethinking mine now. Are mine unusually attractive as far as feet go? Did my ten little piggies cause this seemingly normal young man to do the unthinkable? Or would he have buried his face in any old pair of feet, regardless if they were clean or really gnarly? Good questions all.

While I'm not into it, I don't judge those who like to nibble, suck, sniff or partake in any other activity involving feet. Whatever creams your Twinkie, dudes. But with that said, I firmly believe that there is a time and a place for said foot play. You know, maybe NOT on the R train or any other form of mass transit, for example. I also think it's important that the owner of the toes be a willing participant in the event. Call me overly sensitive but I'm not fond of the idea of a stranger's lips cupped around my unsuspecting toes. Haven't you heard of asking first? What would Miss Manners think? Unless, you know, Emily Post is into that sort of thing...

>> Update! The dude was caught!

>> Click here for yet another tale of an underground fixation with my feet