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Two

I decided to take the easy route from the mid 40’s to Lincoln Center. Of course, the easy route involved heading up 6th to 51st to jig over to 7th and continue up the wind tunnel to 57th. Cut west on 57th to Broadway and head up to Columbus Circle. Loop the Circle, which feels like going about 4 blocks out of your way ever since they rebuilt it, and straight shot it up Broadway again to the 60’s. I jogged up the steps of the promenade to the fountain and sat a spell. I needed to do something, anything, to make up for this morning. The questions was simple. What? The answer was, as these things go, not so simple.

All of the standard City activities lay before me. Shopping, theatre, movies, both the various and the damned sundry sprawled out before me in a tapestry of the possible. Big fucking whoop. I mean let’s be honest here for a second. While I freely admit this is indeed the “City that never sleeps” as well as the one true civilized Mecca, there are days when it sucks. Hard. Cheap. Often. There are only so many times you can and do everything before everything becomes nothing. Once that happens well there’s only one thing left to do. See it all again, for the first time, adopt a tour group as your own and educate them even while you entertained them. All without the consent of their real tour guide.

I crossed my legs under me Indian style and lightly rested the backs of my hands on my knees. Forefinger and thumb formed circles and I pretended to attempt reaching Nirvana. Dave Ghrol wasn’t taking any calls that day though, so I opened my eyes and reconsidered what I was considering. Aww, fuck it. I had nothing better to do anyway.

I hopped off the fountain and thanked the small clutch of musicians gathered to my right, the lot of them clutching black cases near them and laughing too loudly while their eyes betrayed hate for each other. Must’ve been audition day. They turned to me as I thanked them for their time, obviously wondering what I was on and if I would consent to selling any to ease the stress levels. Who knew playing a cello could give you an ulcer? These people were not happy. I, on the other hand, felt positively jaunty. Having a purpose is a wonderful thing.

I ambled down to the 1/9 platform at 66th street and waited for my mighty steel chariot to come whisk me away to happiness. There was one of those women standing fairly close to me, her (fake) sun bleached hair in screwball half curls framing her large green tinted sunglasses. She stood, one hip cocked, in her light cotton ensemble pretending to read a book. The cotton waved slightly as she swayed under the power of her own pretense and she occasionally shifted her feet in and out of her stylish (last year) wicker and wood sandals. She turned, as these women always do, to make sure I could see what she was reading and be suitably impressed by her obvious brain power. I ached to tell her that one generally turns pages when reading Proust, but maybe she knew something I didn’t. It also, I felt, helped if you actually looked at the book. Pretty little delicate thing, I’m sure she was a hit in Kansas but around here there are three of these women on any given subway platform between the hours of 9am and 6pm. I think they tried to form a union once.

We waited, her and I, for the train. Waiting for a train in this town is something of an art. You have the women like her, spending their time trying to look like they mean something to everyone. The business people, men and women both in suits, who are always on the train in some small number no matter the time. Those guys work all the time and riding the train back and forth seems to be their great escape from the day, fairly lounging with papers and briefcases against pillars and posts. There are the couples then, the natives, who talk just loud enough you can’t hear them and even when you can they have developed a language of their own full of short cuts and half phrases. The tourists in their own little world of fantasy and wonderment, riding the train for a glimpse of “the real New York”. whatever that is. There are many many more riders of course, but that’s when the train showed up.

A blast of hot air heralded its arrival, pungent and fast. Noise was next, the roar of a thousand groaning virgins forcing itself into my ears and down my throat, it vibrated me to my core and shook me at the bone level. I saw the lights push out of the darkness of the tunnel as the front car charged down the track, already hissing and squealing as it shed momentum like water off a duck’s ass (or back or whatever, fucking ducks). It stopped and after a beat or two the doors opened with a show of force that would help drive home the concept of “Don’t block these.”, not that it really stopped anyone. A couple of people slid out onto the platform as we lonely few took their place on the car. It was still early enough that the train was standing room only, but late enough that there was actually enough space to both stand and inhale. I slid into the car and took a light hold on the pole near the door, keeping my body relaxed and letting my gaze slide over the other inhabitants who would be sharing this ride with me today. I only had 4 stops to go (59th, 50th, 42nd and exiting on 34th for those keeping score) so it wasn’t worth trying to pick out the person most likely to leave soon and hover to grab a seat.

The doors closed and the conductor cheerfully let us know “Please stab clear of the cloh fing floor! Next mop, 59th street, Colombo circuit.” or something to that effect. The doors slid home with the usual *Bee-boop* and I tensed for movement so as not to be jolted off balance. *Bee-boop* the doors opened again. “Please do not blob the whore!” shouted the conductor angrily. A *Be-boop* and I tensed again, but for no reason. *Be-boop*, “I said do not block the shore!” and then *SLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAM* as the conductor started to hit the open/close on the doors in rapid fire succession, in what had to be attempt to dismember. This really is fairly common. If you bruise them enough, they move out of your way. Nice life lesson that is, really. Apparently who or whatever had been blocking the doors finally moved/died/lost a limb and we shuddered forward suddenly, as I was tossed to the side unbraced and unprepared. I knocked into something with the back of my head, and turned around to see what it had been, since it had given way a bit unlike a steel pole would’ve. I was face to face with the most beautiful women I had seen in months, beautiful except for the fresh blood now running out of her nose. Fuck.

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Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.