Why I Love New York, #5

Picture it - Chrissy and I are on the subway. He's on his way to some appointment and I am planning to go to a yoga class in Union Square (at the Shala). We're doing what we generally do, quoting inane movies to each other instead of engaging in real conversation.

Chrissy - "The small lemon-colored animal."

Marky Mae - "I shall go and purchase the necessary comestibles."

Then, all of a sudden, we hear the all-too-familiar call of The Subway Panhandler. Most of the time, when one hears the inane ululations of these degenerates, one covers one's ears with headphones, acts as if he or she is very involved with a book, or pretends to be deaf. This time, however, there is no avoiding Mr. Vagabond.

"I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I gots no place to sleep. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person. I'm a homeless person."

Back and forth, he trumpets this information, as if we couldn't figure it out just by looking at him, and then - something awesome happens. It turns out that he has Tourette Syndrome. 

He continues his assault on the subway car, marching back and forth and shouting that same line, until he stops in front of a petite woman who is smartly bobbed, dressed for success. She sits stoically, her eyes locked in a gaze toward the floor. He looks down at the hapless lady, pauses his rant, and then shifts gears.

"I'ma FUCK DIS HO UP! I'ma FUCK DIS HO UP! FUCK DIS N*GGA! FUCK DIS N*GGA!" He begins repeating, much like his previous mantra, and storms off in our direction. When he's about three inches away from my friend Chrissy, who is blocking his way, he stops and breathes down Chrissy's neck. "Excuse me," he says to Chrissy in a soft, polite voice.

Chrissy shuffles out of the way, and then the hobo goes back on his tirade.

Sometimes, the subway is a magical place.