~otto~

See, the neighbors upstairs have a pet kleidsdale, er, chleidsdale, er, (Internet search: chlydesdale) clydesdale. I think their horse wears high heels and wakes up to an alarm about a half hour before mine and it clomps around my ceiling for quite a while and I really do not even need to set my alarm any more, see?

A woman was singing and playing the guitar on my subway platform. She is new. She is a nice addition to the mornings. She strummed and sang like she was sitting at campfire during the sixties. Before she arrived the only sounds were the endless off-beat beeps of the turnstile and people chatting and trains grumbling, indecipherable announcements over a mysterious speaker. Now there is also music and the sound of coins hitting her guitar case. Dollar bills do not make much sound when people toss those. (When I see a five-dollar bill in there I wonder if the person took change back or if the singer planted it.) She only sings three songs. “Haleluyeah,” er, (Internet search: Haleluyeah) “Hallelujah,”  “Only Fools Rush In,” and “Empire State of Mind” (let’s hear it for just the chorus). I think she only sings those three songs because if the trains are on time you will not hear the whole loop. The trains are rarely on time.

At lunch I took a piss. It was very dark, like an IPA. I have been ill. A cold I cannot beat. I never understood why old men shake their dicks so long at urinals. Now I do. And not because I have a cold.

This dude was sleeping the whole train ride home after work and at his stop his eyes snapped open, no conductor’s announcement or anything, and he grabbed his bag and walked off like the ceiling of his skull was being stomped on by a clydesdale.

It is hard not to love subway performers unless they make it easy. Terrible boom box with blown speakers, loud clapping when people (me) were tired after long days with boring tasks. People (me) were trying to read. But we (I) had to stop everything so they could do a couple back flips and irritate the crap out of us (me). Seen this same act too many times. Save it for the evenings, men. “Show you’re love, show your support. We’re not robbing or killing.” Oh, right. Those are the only other options. Never mind.

I walked home during a downpour, a few blocks. No umbrella. I hate umbrellas. I bought one the other day for a few bucks at a bodega because I was caught in a drizzle and it was cold and I did not have a hoodie or a hat. The umbrella did not cost that much. Less than a good IPA. I opened the umbrella and a few seconds later a slight breeze destroyed it. It did the reverse-umbrella thing and all the metal parts snapped at the joints and the handle broke and it fell to the ground in pieces, a dying robot spider kite, and I got wet. Then I caught a cold. But that is not why I hate umbrellas.

Street lights look better streaked across ripple-wet sidewalks. If you look close, heavy drops explode on asphalt, moon popcorn craters. Remember the time we rode bikes in the park and a storm chased us? The time we walked across the bridge and there were flowers for someone who jumped? The time we saw a deer run down a busy city street? The other time? There were crumbs of Pringles on my chest, many, as I wrote this even though I had been eating grapes and there is not such a thing as a grape crumb, is there?

Before I wrote this I was reading stories written by people who hope to be accepted to a very fine literary magazine but some of the authors were those subway performers. I would reject this story, too, my story, yet someone trusts me with slush. I should be trusted with rain, also, but not with Pringles.

Thanks for listening with your eyes. And, hey, enough about me. Let’s talk about you and all the wonderful things you think about me.

~O~

Posted at 12:00am and tagged with: one column, fiction, writing,.