Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Last Comic Riding

I haven't been sleeping very well lately, so when I got on the train to go to work this morning, I was tired, cranky in general, and pissed specifically at the fact that it's only fucking Tuesday. So when I got on the packed express train at 96th street and I saw a homeless guy pushing his way through the car, I was not pleased.

I was listening to my Ipod, but unlike the Dominican hood rats who insist on turning up the volume of their Now That's a Shitty Excuse for Music: Volume 47 up to "sweet Christ, how can a pair of earbuds at the other end of the car make me feel like Reggaeton lives in my brain?" I could still hear what the bum was saying.

"So, where do you all think you're going? To work? You ain't going to work!"

Fuck. I am not in the mood to hear about the Zionist conspiracies or the perils of sharing a train with a bunch of circumsized people (an actual subway rant from a few weeks ago).

"You ain't going to work. Don't lie to me. I see you here every morning. You just ride back and forth. You ain't goin' nowhere." You're just ridin' the train 'cause you're jealous."


"You're jealous because you pay 18, 19 hundred dollars a month in rent, and your apartment don't go nowhere. I pay two dollars and my apartment goes all over the city."

Wait a second, is he--

"I got everything I need. I got seats, air conditioning, I even got a stove. Third rail, man. That's hot!"

Yep. He sure is. The bum on the train is doing stand up.

"Yeah, I live on the subway. I live on the subway 'cause I'm hidin' from my wife. Oh, you may say that I'm not a man because I ran away from my wife, but you've never met my wife. She is three hundred and eighty-nine pounds, man! She wears size 69 jeans. She unbuttoned her pants for me and nine stomachs fell out. She tells me, 'babe, my stomach hurts.' I say, 'which one? Number 3 or number 9?'"

At this point, we get to the 72nd street station.

"Man, look at all those people out there. They're gonna come in. I bet they won't even knock. They just gonna come in and sit down like they own the place."

After the people from 72nd street get on, he welcomes them into his home and continues his shtick. When this whole thing started, the people on the train reacted the same way I did--which was basically just pretend to ignore him, and dear God, do not make direct eye contact. About halfway to 72nd street, it morphed into about half of us giggling to ourselves, but still trying not to attract attention or look directly at him.

By the time we were approaching the Times Square station, he had most of the car laughing openly and gladly giving him money. As he left us to finish our commutes and fantasize about creative ways in which we can kill our co-workers and still have it look like an accident, he left us with one final request:

"All right, everyone. Be safe out there, and please pick up your papers and your trash when you leave. I got company coming over later."

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