Regurgitation and the 6 Train

Some people, at the sight of watching another person throw up, cannot then contain it themselves. Any symptoms of nausea can be absent in them, they can be completely sober, or can even be at the height of their health. No matter. Seeing someone else lose their indigestible matter will prompt their own outpouring.

Thankfully, I am not one of these people. I can hold hair back and watch it hit the toilet and everything.

I was minding my business this morning just after the 6 train left Union Square. Standing in front of the door, wanting nothing but the cup of coffee I’d been craving since I woke up, I was a little uncomfortable because it was on the warm side. New York weather has been a tad unpredictable this week and it was in the low 70s. Good thing it would be a short three-stop trip.

I soon noticed a slight commotion to my left, and of course I had to look. My timing, being perfect, made it so the first thing I saw was the thick, never-ending string of mucous hanging from her mouth. I continued to watch.

Her friend had her arm around her as she hurled into a McDonald’s sack. I felt bad for her. Who wants to be in a situation like that? Puking on a train during morning rush hour. She had a bit of a reprieve and sat up, her chest heaving, a thin layer of perspiration covering her forehead. I continued to watch. Then she went down for more.

At 23rd Street now, a woman and her kid, about seven, got on. “Don’t sit over there,” I thought to myself. I wasn’t sure where she ended up until another commotion erupted on the very same end of the train. Stressed out from the regurgitation, I finally looked away, only to turn around to look behind me at this kid who is lying on the floor. This would be the very same floor that people, who have stepped in all kinds of dried up shit, piss, urine, and, uh, vomit, have walked all over. His mother didn’t seem to know what to do other than scream at him to get up off the floor.

So now there is the woman to my left who is puking, probably finding little comfort from her friend. And behind me there is a behaviorally challenged kid rolling around on the floor being screamed at by his parenting-challenged mother. Two more stops to go. Two more stops to go.

Now at 28th Street, the kid still on the floor, the puker still bent over her fast-food-breakfast snack, I considered getting off. It was only five blocks to my coffee. But I was a little short on time, so I had to stay. The doors opened and the mother was still screaming. She finally dragged him up off the floor and out of the train.

One more stop. It seemed she finally stopped throwing up. And I got to get off the train, completely stressed out as I was. I learned two lessons: don’t eat fast food; don’t have children.

The R Train This Week

I boarded the train with my copy of Details magazine, listening to the soundtrack to Sweeney Todd, which I’ve been doing for the better part of three months. I had the volume turned low because I wasn’t in the mood for random onlookers. Michael Cerveris can hit a note and I know people can hear what I’m listening to. Because I had the volume low, I could hear things. Such as the sound of the out-of-tune harmonica that was coming through the open train doors at Union Square. I looked up from my magazine to see if I could spot the blower but I couldn’t. The doors closed and we were on our way. Relieved at the silence, I turned back to my book only to hear another sound. A performer was in my midst. I paused to compose my dirty look, because what I was hearing was not pleasant. And there he was in full view. A short plump man in his mid-60s with three or four chins holding an accordion. An accordian. He played his ditty over my din of Sweeney and I longed for 8th Street. He’d hopefully be done by then. And he was. He made his way to the other side of the train in short steps. Why is he walking like this, I thought to myself. Hurry up and put your hand out for the few coins you’ll get. And then his short steps made sense. He was blind. Clicking his stick side to side across the narrow aisle. Ah shit. Well I couldn’t very well complain. He was the first blind performer I’d seen on a train. And I’ve seen many performers. When he was near me, I hoped he wouldn’t hit me with his stick. He didn’t. And I didn’t give him any money. I only thought how much it’s gotta suck being a blind accordian player trying to walk down the aisle of a moving R train. He made it to the other end safely and once again, I was relieved to be able to read in silence. And then I heard another sound. Jesus Christ! But it wasn’t the sound of an instrument. Unless you consider this voice an instrument. I looked up and to my right once again. And once again, I was ready with my look of contempt. And there she stood. Signs of homelessness written all over her seemingly 40+ year old, life-worn black body. Stained white baseball cap propped up on her mini-afro. Stone-washed jeans and an uncharacteristic t-shirt. She sang some sort of incoherent rhythmic melodies in her rather baritone voice that may very well have been deeper than mine. I went back to my book thinking she’d stay where she was like the blind accordian player did when he sang. But she didn’t. She started walking. And I heard clicking. I looked up. Again. And fucking hell if she weren’t blind. Never seen a blind performer on a train, and now I’ve seen two. In one day. On the same train. Was the other guy there? I looked for some reason, thinking there might be some kind of a blind-train-performer dual. So I looked to the other end to see if the other one was still on the train. He was, but it was all right. There would be peace on the train. She clicked her way toward me, much more furiously, I might add, than the one before her. I was certain she’d nail me with her stick. But by the time she was close enough for me to really be concerned, I didn’t care. Because that’s when I heard it. “Always and foreverrr, each moment with youuu….” No she didn’t. “…is just like a dream to meee, that somehow came trueeee. And I know tomorrowwww…” It was about this time that, despite the fact that Sweeney was in my ears, I fought hard to keep my mouth shut. “…will still be the saaaame, cause we’ve got a life of loooove that won’t ever change and every daaay, love me your own special way…” I did keep my mouth shut. But I hummed, folks. I hummed. I couldn’t help it. And who wouldn’t? “…melt all my heart awaaaay, with a smiiiiiiiiile. Take time to tell me……” She didn’t hit me with her stick.

The Thing With People

People are everywhere. This is nothing new. Everyone meanders in and out of everyone else, and it seems that there are unwritten rules to make this flow rather smoothly most days. I’m not quite sure what it is, but I go with it, as I am one out of everyone else. But there are some days when nothing goes right. When it seems the stars are out of whack and everyone gets hit with the dumb stick upon waking. This was one of those days. The R train to Brooklyn comes at 9 a.m. I try to catch it on mornings I’m at my house. Whether I get up at 7 (rare) or 8:30 (more often than not), I usually have luck. I caught it this morning in one of those perfect fashions when the door opens just as I swipe my metro card. But before the perfection, I had to contend with an idiot who just had to pick up the nickel or dime or penny or whatever it is he dropped just before the turnstile. The Union Street station gets crowded at this time and because of this, neither he nor I were the only ones around. Which meant that there was little space for me to pass him as he was bent over, ass in the air to retrieve a pointless to me coin. “What an idiot,” I thought as I decided to go to his right, which would leave me with just enough time to catch the train that had just arrived and that would definitely not wait for me unless I got my ass through. But then he moved. To his right. And at times like these, when it seems that common sense flies away, I take matters into my own hands. I teach little lessons in common sense by letting the stupid people know that their actions have interrupted the flow of someone else. I bump into them. And this is what I did with the coin dude. Just a quick nudge to let him know that he was an idiot and in my way. We both made the train. But I got on first. I take the R train one stop to Pacific with what seems like the rest of the world. And, like clockwork, the D train arrives. I look for a spot that might allow me to get on first, so I can try to sit in one of the few remaining seats. It worked that way for me this morning. And I spotted a seat just as I stepped on the train. With my head down, I went right for it. But I soon noticed that there was someone else, coming in the opposite direction with her head down bolting to my seat. And just as I pulled up next to it, she sat down. “All right then,” I said out loud over my music. With a sideways grin on my face, I stood in front of the doors and pulled out my book. But before I started reading, I made sure she saw me. We looked right at each other, her dumb brown eyes peering out from behind the glare of her stupid round lenses. She wasn’t much darker than I and she had a few years on me. I didn’t care though. I wanted to pull her up by her neck, give her one good knee to her potato, and step on her back as I took the seat that she stole. I shook my head with that grin still on my face. Had she not been so greedy, I would have let her take the damn seat. But it became a competition for a morning respite before work, and I lost. And all I could do was grin. And the madness didn’t stop there. People gather in groups in the worst places in this city. At the top or bottom of the only set of stairs; in front of a turnstile; on a corner; in front of subway doors. When I left the D train, there were two people standing in front of the open doors not caring about the people getting on or off. Common sense. I had to teach them a lesson. With a quick nudge to a back, I stepped off and shook my head. Sometimes this city annoys me. Or is it the people? Maybe the two don’t mix. And this was all before work. It warranted a break-time conversation over chai with Chris. He had a similar day yesterday. But we differ in one respect. He won’t nudge people. I don’t care who the hell it is; they need to know they’re stupid. It’s so annoying that it’s worth a blog post.

Love to Adverbs

On the subway a while back, hanging onto an N-train pole, I spotted an ad for the School of Visual Arts. I was saddened.

Adverbs, people, adverbs!

It should read, “How Badly Do You Want To Be Good?” Bad is an adjective. Badly is an adverb. To what degree do potential students want to be good? SVA is a good school I hear. Visual art and stuff. Not big on the grammar front. No biggie. What’s good grammar?

The Strike’s End

Who cares? At this point, I can’t even concern myself with the minutiae that comes with these things. The union, the city, the workers, the birds, the bees. Please. But it’s finally over. I hear the trains will be back to normal sometime in the middle of the night. But like I said. Who cares? If this thing doesn’t make transplants into true New Yorkers, I don’t know what would. Of course, a simple glare at a stupid woman in line at the post office doesn’t have that much of an effect. So I went a little further this time. When I arrived at the Soho post office this afternoon, there was a long line. Not cool. After looking around the joint, wishing I could find a shortcut of some sort, I settled in, pissed off, and began the long wait for my turn. And then I heard the voice. This fuckin’ bitch in her mid-fifties (although I’d even put money on her being much older) with a badly chosen auburn for her hair color was on her circa 2001 Nokia cell phone. She was talking to Theresa from T-Mobile. Loudly. How did I know she was talking to her cell-phone provider? Because she kept moaning about some shit having been going on since Tuesday and she didn’t want to have to spend her minutes and she called last Tuesday and the person she talked to promised to report the service interruptions and she should have no more problems but here she is standing in line at the post office having nothing but problems and pleading with Theresa to help her out. But Theresa put her on hold. Silence. It was golden. And then Theresa came back. And the auburn-hair-colored bitch in her mid-fifties who easily could have been in her mid-sixties starts over again. THERESA THIS CAN’T HAPPEN ANYMORE I KEEP SPENDING MY MINUTES ON THIS AND THEY TOLD ME ON TUESDAY THAT I WOULD GET A TROUBLE TICKET (or some shit like that) AND CAN YOU PLEASE MAKE SURE THIS GETS TAKEN CARE OF BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO HAVE THIS KIND OF TROUBLE ANYMORE BECAUSE IT’S BEEN GOING ON FOR DAYS AND …..I’m the only one in the world who has issues with cell phones and are therefore the only one who deserves to be treated as though I’m the only customer in the world….. People were looking. Sideways glances every so often in the hopes of getting her attention. Because maybe then she’d hang up the goddamn phone out of respect for the 1,700 people who were waiting to mail their parcels. Thirty minutes later and I had moved about ten feet. And she was still on the phone. I’d had it. We made eye contact thrice. And it wasn’t normal eye contact. It was, “Get off the phone or I’m gonna whoop your ass,” kinda eye contact. It didn’t work. She turned back around and proceeded with Theresa. So I stepped out of line and took the phone out of her hand. I looked at her one last time before I placed it calmly on the floor. Then, with all my 200 pounds of might, slammed my right foot down on it as hard as I could. I then took her by her auburn-colored hair and yanked her head into the counter she was leaning against. Ok, no I didn’t. But I wanted to. And I pictured it. I really did. And it felt fucking good to see her suffering in my head. She did finally get off the phone. Thirty minutes after I arrived. I’m sure Theresa and her co-workers had a good laugh. A few minutes later, she whipped out her relic of a phone and called Bob. Her whining continued. Been at the post office for an hour. Like none of us had been. We made more eye contact. She made it to the window. Done. Finally. I was one person away from my turn. And I heard her voice again. She just couldn’t stay off the phone. And more significantly, she couldn’t, seemingly wouldn’t, get the fuck out of the post office. I was there simply to mail a letter. “Is there anything fragile in here that can be damaged in transit?” the post office clerk guy asked. I looked at him, heated still a little from the stupid woman, and said it would fly just fine. “At least you have a sense of humor about it all.” “I have to, he said, or else I’d go…I’d go….” “Postal?” “Yeah.” He laughed. I smiled. Then he took it back. Most likely in the event that he does go postal. The strike is over. Stress can return to its normal New York levels.

Not a Good Day For the Subway

I could immediately start in on my morning commute. I could retell my experiences with crowds, humidity, the inability to understand the train driver. But that would be too easy. So I’m going to begin with last night.

After leaving Jill’s gig at Arlene’s Grocery, this guy that I kind of know — not very well — stopped me to talk.  “I came out looking for you,” he said.  I met him at the Tea Lounge one night months ago. I’ve seen him a few times since. He’s in his forties, works as a barrista (or is that barristo?) at another Park Slope cafe called Ozzie’s, and he acts. And sings apparently.

Anyway, I stopped and lit a clove while waiting for him to come over. I didn’t mind waiting, because the train station was quite close so I wouldn’t have had enough time to suck down a clove. Now I did.  He finally came over with his hand outstretched.  “What’s up, dude?” I asked him, already a little wary of his energy, not knowing if I had enough of my own for it. He had a big smile on his face, which was a little odd, because he’s usually a little more on the chill side. “Catherine!” he said, now holding my hand. “You look [he paused here, trying to find the right adjective] vibrant.”  What th- “Vibrant?!” I said, questioned, retorted, and exclaimed all at once. “That’s a first,” I told him. “Of all the words that have been used in history to describe me, ‘vibrant’ has never been one of them.” “Well, you look great.”  “Well, thanks. It must be Simon and Garfunkel.”

Best Line, Directed at Me, I’ve Heard on the Train

“I mean, I’m gonna charge you more if I’m gonna have to hold your dick.”

Let me explain.

I’m on a train reading, minding my own business as usual. Somewhere in midtown, I look up and there’s a guy looking at me. Relatively attractive with his unkempt goatee, his feet are resting on his skateboard and he appears unable to get out of his dead stare. Whatever.

I went back to my book. Then I hear, “Excuse me, can I ask you a question. I’m sorry.” I look up and he goes to the edge of his seat. Pointing to my earrings, he asks “Are those 12 gauge?” “No,” I replied. “They’re 6s.” “Really? They look like 12s.” “No,” I said. “The lower the number, the thicker the gauge.” “Yeah, I know, I’m a piercer.”

Then shouldn’t you be able to determine the correct gauge of my earrings from five feet away? Idiot.

“I was just gonna suggest that you get 6s because they’d look good on you.”

He then went on to tell me about his freelance piercing situation. He said that if I’d bring him five people, he’d pierce me for free. I nodded, not interested in the least in getting anything else pierced. As he got up and took the seat near me, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. I did applaud his self-motivation, but obtaining the services of a drunk freelance piercer doesn’t sound enticing.

He then went into his pricing, describing in great detail his discount prices compared to those of your standard piercing parlor, which tends to charge four times the price of the jewelry. He only charges two times, apparently. Unless he’s doing the genitals, of course. Which brings me to the best line, directed at me, I’ve heard on the train.

“I mean, I’m gonna charge you more if I’m gonna have to hold your dick.”
Despite this, I accepted a piece of paper with his name — Kendrick, a.k.a. Pennywise — and number, so that I may collect five people to go under his drunken gun.

Oh, Was Today the First Day of School?

I awoke early to the usually-romantic-but-not-quite-so-at-this-time sound of a torrential downpour. Is it not still summer? I’ve been sleeping in sweats the last two nights, which is strange, but I’ve been cozy and that’s all that matters. So I lay awake from about 6:45 a.m. to 8 or so, refusing to get up because this is technically my last day to really sleep in — guilt free. I did manage to go back to sleep, only to roused by my alarm clock. After, I would say, the third go-around with the snooze button, there was a knock on my door. Cornelia, concerned I was oversleeping, asked,

“Catherine, do you need to wake up now or can you keep sleeping?” I thought for a moment and then responded, “I can keep sleeping.” But sleep I did not. I chilled in this position, not wanting to get up but knowing I should. And so I did. I started the coffee, chit-chatted with Cornelia for about an hour or so, and then finally began the day…with a call to Cingular.

I just got a new phone through them and, finally excited to be rid of Sprint, I anxiously awaited the opportunity to use my cell phone in my room. Unfortunately, this was not to be. It seems that this house, this wonderful house with no white walls, doesn’t do the cell-phone thing. In fact, the signal is worse with this phone than it was with my Sprint phone. Luckily, the signal was the least of my worries with Sprint, so I have no regrets about the change.

Anyway, so I have this problem. I can’t be inside at all and be on the phone. There are two signal bars on the display but as if I have signal-zapping powers flowing through my veins, it disappears when I pick the phone up. I wondered if it was the phone. I spoke with a couple of people with Cingular and the second person said it was a possibility. Clinging to this idea, I called up to the main Cingular store near Rockefeller Plaza on 47th and 5th.

Enough with the Arachnids

I decided to overlook the first spider I killed, which happened before I even moved in. It was a little one and it was of one of those jumping varieties. I decided to overlook the second jumper I saw, as well, because, although it was on my property, it was just outside the front of the door. I spared its life because I figured it wasn’t doing me any harm by being out there.

Last week, I came into my room and took off my shoes. I looked down and chillin’ there like it belonged was this huge-ass light brown (almost see-through) spider. My heart began to race out of fear and then shock that I was faced with such a creature. I killed it. I didn’t want to. I usually have other people do it, because I simply cannot handle those fucking things. Erin did it wonderfully for two and a half years (actually, she saved them most of the time). And being 13 floors up in good ‘ol William St. last year freed me from having to worry about such things. Well, I’m spared no longer.

Bomb Scares and Stuff

I was forced to take another train yesterday as a result of the bomb scare at Union Square. This station is my home away from home away from home: one of the places I spend most of my time at various hours throughout the day. As long as it stays exciting. In more exciting NYC news, the frickin’ MTA is about to strike.

I only live a few miles from school so I can walk. But it makes getting to all of the I-can’t-believe-this-semester-is-over parties a little difficult. Speaking of the end of the semester, I have finally accepted the fact that I no longer sleep regular hours. I left NYU’s library yesterday morning at four and then walked home for some reason. I needed the exercise, I guess.

I’m up against a wall with this paper with only momentary glimpses of intelligent thought. Momentary. So I’ve turned to merengue. Who knew I’d like merengue as much as I do. I’m going to be getting lessons from Renata (she’s in my program) as well as Spanish lessons in addition to the Spanish class that I hope I can take next semester. I’ll never make it to salsa (Nevin!) because I don’t think my feet can move that fast. Merengue will work. Kim’s sister goes to Sac. St. and I told her to tell her sister to hit the Monkey Bar for her 21st birthday. Then all of a sudden, my mind started thinking of Sacramento restaurants that I must patronize while I’m there (finances willing, of course).

They are as follows in no particular order: 1. Bernardo’s for the calzone and ice cold Hefeweizen 2. Banderra’s for the chicken and ice cold Hefeweizen 3. Streets of London for bangers and mash (and the waitresses) 4. Esquire Grill for the New York Steak and mashed potatoes (won’t be able to afford this one but I think I just sense-memoried myself into satisfaction) Can you tell I only eat frozen dinners? I’m sure I’ll think of more as my impending trip to Cali gets closer.

While doing some research for my paper I came across the Loving v. Virginia which was the state’s attempt in the 1960s to make it illegal to marry a member of another race. This isn’t surprising, especially since the image on the back of the Virginia quarter is slave ships. Check it out. My favorite line in the article is: “Virginia’s law prohibits the activity when done to intimidate a person or group.” Although I guess it is possible for people to go to the trouble to burn a cross to get off on the pretty light it makes.

They get till June to figure this out. Is it a form of free speech? As long as it doesn’t intimidate anyone.