Be prepared when traveling on public transportation to envelop yourself in an insulated bubble of armor.
This greasy looking motherfucker, pimple face kid wearing a NYY’s knit hat with a pastel pink long sleeve cotton button down shirt, gray slacks, and black dress shoes.
Hip-hop boomed out of a cellphone tucked in his front shirt pocket…
Other passengers tried to give him the stare.
He ignored all who wanted his gaze. Changing the tune into some knife wielding or sword fighting game, we were trapped in a tin can all the way from Kew Gardens, Queens to 42nd Street, Manhattan.
Asian woman on my left crashed into me in a drunken slumber. Jerking my fingers to other letters…
backspace. backspace. delete.
She awoke disoriented.
No words of apology pass her lips, as she folded her arms, and fell back into sleep.
Computerized sounds of fists striking flesh seemed to coincide with her nods. It was as if she was being beaten…
She’s jolted awake by the train’s movements, before falling asleep again, only to crash against my shoulder like debris against the shore.
Another character in this melee of clueless beings… Older woman, maybe middle aged, hair jet black and wavy. Carrying two bags, one over her shoulder the other hanging loose at her side… tap tap tapping me on my knee like a rock hammer chiseling away at my insulation.
The small taps were enough to get my notice, but not enough to force a comment from my clenched lips, as my fingers fly over the keyboard of my cellphone. Writing everything down to keep my bubble safe from destruction.
Don’t let your bubble burst, because it won’t be confetti that explodes.
Keep it in… endure… say nothing, because you don’t know who’s crazier than you.
All you have is your insulation, laughter, and eye rolls with other passengers who’re afraid to say, or do anything lest they unleash a knife wielding PSYCHO on the F train on our way to work!