At 42nd, Port Authority…

At 42nd St. Port Authority, I stepped onto the one train as I usually do. The car’s center filled with people like a Twinkie fills with cream. A strange short man appears. Hunched and hooded, his age is ambiguous. He is gaunt in face and above the valleys of his cheeks rest a pair of cheap sunglasses. ”MAWWWAAAAH!!” Addressing everyone and no one and the car, he pushes between passengers vomiting incoherent noises with his face tilted unnaturally upward. “MAWWWAAAAH!!” I register him, consider him, conclude him to be crazy.

In an instant, the middle of the car is empty and I, who stood dreaming, am left as the foolish prey. The college girl. He may have thought. Look at her coat coordinated with her gloves and hat. The deliberate handbag and pointed shoes. 

“MAWWWWAHHHHHHHHHHH!!” He said, when my eyes — mimicking other passengers — darted in his direction. 

I want to say that I played “cool New Yorker” and stood 12 inches away from this man all the way to 110th Street, but the truth is: I didn’t. We reached 50th Street. I moved to the end of the car. “AAAAAAAWWMMA!” He took a seat. We reached 59th Street. An imposing bald white man spoke up.”Ay YO!” The crazy dropped many Jesus pamphlets on the floor. A man shifted places with his wife who exhaled, relieved.

We reached 66th Street. I moved to another car. Everyone was reading a book.