Jerry walked down the steps. It had been a hard day. Working as a bookkeeper in a furniture store was not exactly exciting. It was a few extra shekels. Making ends meet in 1976 was not easy. So $50 is worth a day’s boredom and frustration. It was just a pain in the ass to trek all the way out to Forest Hills and then back to Borough Park. But at least it was a straight shot on the F Train.
The platform was deserted as usual. Even though it was a cold winter’s day it still reeked of urine. The tile walls were covered in graffiti. It had never been this way when he was a kid. People were proud of their neighborhood. They kept things up. Forest Hills was an expensive place as far as those things went. That didn’t spare it. These “artists” came to every station and spray painted their tags everywhere. It made everywhere look like a slum. Maybe they did it so they could feel at home.
The F train pulled into the station. Oh no. It was one of those new R-46 models. Supposedly it was graffiti proof. All hard plastic seats that were easy to scrub unlike the older trains. The only problem was that the doors were locked. So you couldn’t go from car to car. You needed to have an escape route. Everybody knows that. If you weren’t ready you were a victim.
Jerry walked on to the train and put his head down. It was empty at his end of the car. He pulled out his pocket Talmud and prepared to study. He had a long ride and he would have time to be ready to talk with his friends that night.
There was a burst of noise and cursing from the other end of the car. A bunch of schvartzers were passing a bottle of wine in a paper bag back and forth. They must have got on in Jamaica. There were six of them four men and two women. They were all dressed in cheap flashy clothes. One of them had a big pimp hat like Walt Frazier of the Knicks wore all the time. He seemed to be the leader. You could tell because he had the bottle most of the time.
“Wha cha looking at white boy” shouted the guy in the hat. Jerry looked up. There was a white guy sitting across from them. He looked touched in the head. He was meshuga for sure. Big and heavy he was hugging a stained paper shopping bag that looked like it had clothes in it. Big coke bottle glasses and a rumpled suit completed his attire. This was not good.
“Lonnie be talking to you fool” shouted another of the gang over the sound of the train rushing through the tunnels on the express line. They were going past four stations to the express stop at Roosevelt Avenue. “Wha cha looking at?”
The white guy laughed. “A couple of pieces of shit.”
“FUCK” shouted one of the animals. He threw the bottle to ground where it burst and leaped at the white guy and started giving him a beat down. His friends got up and joined in as the white guy covered up holding the shopping bag in front of him to adsorb some of the kicks and punches raining down on his head.
All of the people at the other end of the car rushed to the back to get away from the melee. A skinny hippie looking woman with granny glasses was crying. “They are going to kill him. Somebody do something!” Nobody was going to do anything. Nobody was going to volunteer to be a victim. Suddenly she moved toward emergency cord. Jerry jumped up and grabbed her arm.
“What are you doing Miss?” he sputtered. “If you stop the train we are stuck in here with them for hours. Wait till we get to the next station. Then you can get a cop. If you can find one.” Good luck with that. He had never actually seen a Tranist Cop on the train. He heard about them like unicorns but he had never seen one in real life. “ Wait we will be there soon.”
The fighting continued. One of the woman had taken off her shoes and was hitting the poor fool on the head with her spike heel. He was bleeding pretty badly as they competed at punching and kicking him. He was lucky that they were getting in their own way. Otherwise it would have been much worse.
The train pulled into the station. The hippie woman pulled the cord. Everyone else ran out on to the platform. Jerry among them. He walk across the platform to the G train and got on. It was the local. It would take a lot longer. He would have to change trains. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about what was happening on the F train. It was none of his business. Let the animals kill each other.
It was another ride home in 1976.
2 comments:
Parts of that remind me of riding the school bus as a kid. Dangerous place to be at times.
On his way home Jerry needed to stop a while to collect his thoughts. He opened the door to O'Shea's bar, walked in, and sat on a stool in the nearly empty bar. It was early; the crowd hadn't come in yet.
The bartender asked "whadlyahave?" and Jerry said "White Russian". The drink arrived and Jerry sat there, enjoying the drink and the quiet. After a time, the drunk at the end of the bar started running his mouth. Mothereff this, and eff that, and when I was in the Army that. Jerry knew the type - the goombah wannabe loudmouth. The expert on everything, the guy who needs to be part of your conversation, even when you're not talking to him. The overweight, out of shape guy who watched Taxi Driver too many times.
The guy kept yapping, Jerry ignored him. He got louder, but then a woman walked in. A crazy woman; a few brief words gave her away. She walked over to the guy and said a few words. They seemed to be acquainted, it seemed to Jerry, and they locked into a conversation, an irrational conversation, with each other. A love-hate conversation only they understood. A sick thing.
Soon enough they were gone. Pushing, shoving, swearing at each other, they went out the door. "Moths to the same flame" thought Jerry. Jerry finished his drink and left cash on the bar. It was time to go home, time to ignore the noise and the fools, time to move on.
Post a Comment