"You don't have to be bored anymore"

From across the subway car, I can tell he's watching. That he's going to come over. He's dirty and there's something off; it's unclear whether this is mental illness or something else. I am thinking about getting up, going to a new train car, escaping, but it's too late; he is already there, shuffling into the seat next to me. His voice is low. He mumbles something, a question.

This has happened before. I've been here almost 7 years, after all. It has happened to everyone. Someone, a stranger, says something crazy, or disgusting. Sometimes both. The difference is that this time, I am not moving, not getting up, no half-smile to the other passengers that says, "what a nut, eh?". I tell him to fuck off. Furious. He's furious. He's on his feet, shouting and bouncing and waving. I am on my feet now too. The other passengers, the Christmas-shopping tourists, tired day-shifters, hooting teenagers, are moving away, escaping to the other side of the train. And it's hilarious that they're moving away, in part, from me. From what I might do. I would laugh, but I'm scared out of my mind. The man is pushed up against me, shouting, his hand on my shoulder.

My hands are clenched. Everything's blurry and I'm so hot it's hard to breathe. I barely recognize my own voice when I snarl it. When I shout it. Go ahead and hit me. I dare you.

How can it be that only an hour later my friend Fred and I are sitting down to pumpkin ravioli at the kitchen table. I don't point out to him that my hands are still shaking as I pour the wine. And when I try to explain what happened, I can't do it. Explanations are lost on Fred tonight anyway. He is Fresh Off the Jet from Korea and Japan, where he was famous; there are pictures of him thronged by girls as he signs autographs. He's hardly slept in two days and he is beginning to forget the words for everyday things. At O'Connors, over the budweisers I guarantee him will help him sleep through the night, his eyes begin to quiver, to shimmy ever so slightly. It makes me laugh. He laughs too, but by the time I drop him off at the Q train, his face has gone blank and his hat is sweetly crooked. He wakes up 14 hours later, ready for pancakes.


*This update completed while listening to Tito Puente.