———–

I jogged out of my apartment, waved at the doorman who hated me, and hit the street. I really didn’t like how tight the timing for this trip was, but I saw no good choice so I went straight up 15th to avoid the slowdowns of crowds and moved west to 7th to get back on the 1/9. I had started to feel, not for the first time, that I spent about half my waking life on this train. I hit the station and waited impatiently for a train, smiling to myself as luck gave me a small boon in the form of a 2 train. The express wouldn’t stop where I needed to get off but it would get me that much closer a lot faster. I got on and we barreled to 34th and then 42nd, where I had to leave my zippy chariot behind and transfer to a 1/9 to get the rest of the way. I rode the train to 59th, yes the same station where this whole fucked up mess started, and took the stairs down to the D (and A, B and C. It’s like taking trains in a Jackson 5 nightmare some days) to head uptown to Carlos.

I hate the D train, that has to be said. It rockets uptown like a beast out of the pit slamming itself from 59th Street all the way to 125th in one fell swoop. I don’t know why swoops fall, but they do and that’s what they’re like once they’ve fallen. Then it plays hide and seek with the stops. Is it express? Is it local? Does anyone know? No one ever seems to and it gets old after a while; well it would get older I suppose if I ever needed to stop at one of the stations it might or might not skip.

As I sat there I noticed a woman, older and rocking back and forth in her seat. Around 161st street she stood up. I was fascinated by her rocking, in time to the swaying of the train but obviously artificially exaggerated. It didn’t stop as she stood and slowly dragged her feet to a door. When I say slowly, understand she stood up at 161st Street as the train opened the doors and reached the doors as we were pulling out of 167th. A walk of less than 10 feet shouldn’t take 4 minutes to achieve. I was soon very sorry she had made it because all at once she started making sheep noises. I mean full blown loud “BAAAAAH”s. After every one she would stop and laugh just as loudly. Well who doesn’t like a bit of pleasant country atmosphere with their train ride. This kept up for a few more stops until she added another twitch to the act, knocking on the Plexiglas window of the train door and asking “Hello?” in between the bleating and laughing. We had achieved freak liftoff.

The other passengers were just as stunned as I was, all of us either staring openly at her or stealing glances while trying to look disinterested. How could you not be interested in this? How many other towns have free performance art on their mass transit systems, and best of all she wasn’t asking for money. I started to ponder requesting a new animal, just to see what she would do, but decided against it, lest she turn her Orwellian eye towards me all “two legs bad, four legs good” and shit. We hit Fordham Road and thankfully she got off, turning to stand and wave at the train as it moved on without her.

I rode onward to Bedford Park where I departed the station with both grace and ease. I walked over to 201st and Briggs and found the building I was looking for, ringing the bell with unbridled impatience. It was hitting about 6:20 now and I was nothing close to pleased.

The buzzer sounded and I had to cope with the trick of opening both the outer and inner doors in the space of one buzz. I ended up pushing the heavy solid metal outer door as fast and hard as I could while trying to kick out to catch the inner door, only to find the inner door had a handle. I buzzed again and got the inner door open. You had to wonder how the delivery guys managed it. Hell they probably had some secret door opening device that would latch handles and shit, all slick and smooth, or maybe the chow mien was just that powerful. Regardless of the mysteries of take-out, I got in and hopped the elevator to 4. As I exited the 1960’s fake wood paneled box I saw Carlos standing half in his door waiting for me.

“Yo, gato, wassuuuup? Chico needs some bling-bling huh?” he said with a big shit eating grin.

“Carlos, cut the ‘I’m Hispanic and live in the Bronx’ crap. Why do you feel the need to pull that shit every time I come see you?”

“Alright, fine, fuck you Gringo, I’m just keeping it real and shit like fuckin’ Budweiser tells me to.” He made no motion to move aside or offer me in. Carlos’ little misshapen goatee sat on his chin like Pythagoras’ wet dream.

“Jesus fucking wept. You are such a bundle of fuckery.”

“That’s why you love me. That’s why the ladies love Carlos too.”

“Yah and some call you Maurice the gangster of love. So can I borrow sixty?”

“‘Til when?”

“Until I get my damned check and deposit it.”

“First of the month? That’s like a week or so away,” he sighed dramatically, “Yeah alright, hold on.” He stepped back into his apartment and closed the door leaving me in the hallway. In all the years I’ve known Carlos I have never seen the inside of his place, excepting the small bit visible when he opened his door. Mostly we caught each other in bars. After a few seconds he reappeared with the cash and handed it over. We exchanged various insults and goodbyes and I took the stairs on the way down.

I walked back to the D fairly quickly, noting it was now just past 6:30 and waited for a train thankful for my Metro Card so I didn’t have to eat up more cash with all the train rides today. It came and I got on, glancing at my watch every minute or so, watching the time slip away. It was about 7:45 by the time we hit 59th Street again thanks to a few assholes holding doors and other basic subway delays and I ran upstairs to catch a 1/9. There was, I knew, no way to make it. I knew it but I wasn’t about to admit defeat and so I stood on the platform, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The train came after what felt like hours (and was in actuality four minutes) and as we went I kept my eyes open for a possible transfer to an express again, but no such luck. I got out of station at 14th and 7th at 8:01 and cursed loudly to no one as I started to jog eastward and home.

———–
Never Bite the Homeless is copyright Adam P. Knave.