I hate them for the same reason.
Topping my hated list is Handy the Hygiene Exhibitionist (pictured), the shadiest of characters, who haunts the streets, subways, and my nightmares with a set of nail clippers and a liberal use policy to match.
I’m not sure what Handy here was up to before I encountered him, we rode together for just one stop, but my guess is he finished blowing out the hair and did a quick touch-up on the fade just as I arrived if the nail clipping is any indication.
Now one night last year I was standing by the door of a 7 train when an elderly man sitting to my right turned his head and threw up on me three times. I paid dearly for that, my trek home cost me a well-worn pair of Chucks, jeans, and boxers. Then there was the emotional toll, a sleepless night followed by my wife’s ceaseless belief that I’d “crapped my pants.” She’ll tell you all about it, incorporating a pretty solid impression of the whimpering my arrival home was accompanied by into the story as well.
Point is I’m a veteran of subterranean travel. I’ve seen and heard plenty of things down there. That certainly wasn’t the first vomit I’d encountered on the subway, but it was the first inside my sneakers. I’d come across countless people peeing on the train, and one special morning I even interrupted a guy with the angriest look on his face in the middle of a fierce game of pocket pool. But being the victim in this vomit incident had me re-thinking subway travel. Still, the sense-assaulting damage of that night was nothing compared to the impact of Handy the Hygiene Exhibitionist’s incessant clipping and snipping.
In the end, the difference between Handy and the old man is intent, or at least I’m hoping it is. One of these men made a conscious decision about his actions.
The subway is a dangerous place, and while the days of Bernie Goetz have long since passed, there’s no denying that nail clippers are the new switchblades.
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Carl, allow me to tell a story.
ReplyDeleteIt was the late 80s and I was on the N train heading out to L'Amour, the Rock Capital of Brooklyn, to see Jane's Addiction. With me were two Canadian girls that I had met earlier that week at the Cat Club, a dance club that is now as defunct as L'Amour. Both of the girls had been drinking. (I said they were Canadian, right?) About halfway there, in a moment of pure rock'n'roll, Melissa barfs in the middle of the car.
When we got out of the show, the hour was in a single digit. On the way back to the subway I announced to the ladies that, despite the late hour, the train would arrive within five minutes and that it would be the exact same train that had taken us out.
Sure enough, two minutes later the train pulls in and, as we step inside, we see Melissa's vomit.
I may never see another perfect intersection of precognition, public transport and puke as long as I live.