subways & prototypes
On the train ride home today at 59th street there's a man playing the bongo drum in my subway car, and from 59th street to 125th street which is a pretty long ride he plays nonstop on this drum. Fast beats that are synced with the pace of the train. I happen to look up right as he stops, and in that split second awkward silence after a performance he starts applauding himself because no one else will. A few others join in. Then he gets up and in the silence of the bongo-less car he goes around and asks "money for the drummer? money for the drummer?"
Ears still ringing, the train moves from 125th to 145th street. At 145th street a mini Mariachi band gets onto the train, complete with cowboy hats and matching white starched shirts. They play and wail and harmonize and a girl walks around the car with a hat, and no one is giving money. Everyone is probably thinking what the fuck is up with all of these panhandlers attacking this one subway car.
Their playing stops and you hear "Thank you, gracias, gracias."
I get off the train at 175th street and there's a long tunnel that leads me from the subway to the bus terminal. In this tunnel there is a permanent fixture, a rail-thin man who always sits on a little crate. He is usually wearing a clean white t-shirt, sunglasses, and a hat. He sits on this crate and plays the saxophone - and by 'plays the saxophone' I mean he really knows how to play. Maybe it's the acoustics of the tunnel or something but he gets me every single time, whether he's playing Whitney Houston or a hymn. Hes been sitting there playing his saxophone for as long as I can remember. So I figure since I've been hearing all of this music on the train I kind of want to detox with a tune of his, but it turns out he's taking a day off today or something because he's not there.
Once, a few months ago I remember kind of stumbling up through the tunnel completely stoned out of my mind, my mind kind of swimming with thoughts as I move upstream with all of the 9-5-ers trudging home from work. Complacent office types. And this guy is sitting on his crate playing MJ's "Rock With You" and I seriously feel like dancing because he's totally grooving. But then I'm looking around me and all I see are tired faces, completely unaffected by the music, and that makes me want to dance even more, just to show this guy that at least I'm alive. At least there's one person in this whole stream of commuters who's not dead yet. But I guess the pressure of normalcy and conformity crushes me and I end up just being one of the crowd.
Another time, I'm walking up the same tunnel and I see the saxophone man, but he's not playing his saxophone. Instead he's just sitting there, his skeletal legs primly crossed, elbow resting on his knee, hand resting on his chin. And I see that he's talking to this guy who's just standing there nodding his head, and as I walk by I hear him say - I realize this is the first time I've ever heard him vocally speak - "...the money accumulates interest."
Of course! The money accumulates interest!
The money fucking accumulates interest.
And his voice is just what I imagined it to be - low, a little raspy, like hes had one too many packs of cigarettes in his day. But completely level and clear.
Changing topics.
A little while ago my friend Heidi IMed me and right off the bat asked me what kind of guy I imagined her being with. I asked her to elaborate. She said, "If I was walking down the street with boyfriend X and ran into you, who would he be?" Which I thought was a very very random thing to ask, especially given that I haven't spoken to her in many weeks. But this is precisely why Heidi is so amusing.
Anyway, since I still had no idea what she expected from me, she gave me an example and detailed for me the type of guy she imagined me with. Apparently my boyfriend X would be 5'11" with brown hair and brown eyes, my age, in Gallatin, plays the guitar and hates John Mayer, loves Woody Allen movies, plays racquetball and/or squash, and is from Connecticut and is pursuing music because he can afford to live off of his family's money forever. If he were a color he would be mahogany with lime green trim. Also, he apparently wouldn't have a very firm handshake, and could possibly have the last name Malone.
Hm.
Ears still ringing, the train moves from 125th to 145th street. At 145th street a mini Mariachi band gets onto the train, complete with cowboy hats and matching white starched shirts. They play and wail and harmonize and a girl walks around the car with a hat, and no one is giving money. Everyone is probably thinking what the fuck is up with all of these panhandlers attacking this one subway car.
Their playing stops and you hear "Thank you, gracias, gracias."
I get off the train at 175th street and there's a long tunnel that leads me from the subway to the bus terminal. In this tunnel there is a permanent fixture, a rail-thin man who always sits on a little crate. He is usually wearing a clean white t-shirt, sunglasses, and a hat. He sits on this crate and plays the saxophone - and by 'plays the saxophone' I mean he really knows how to play. Maybe it's the acoustics of the tunnel or something but he gets me every single time, whether he's playing Whitney Houston or a hymn. Hes been sitting there playing his saxophone for as long as I can remember. So I figure since I've been hearing all of this music on the train I kind of want to detox with a tune of his, but it turns out he's taking a day off today or something because he's not there.
Once, a few months ago I remember kind of stumbling up through the tunnel completely stoned out of my mind, my mind kind of swimming with thoughts as I move upstream with all of the 9-5-ers trudging home from work. Complacent office types. And this guy is sitting on his crate playing MJ's "Rock With You" and I seriously feel like dancing because he's totally grooving. But then I'm looking around me and all I see are tired faces, completely unaffected by the music, and that makes me want to dance even more, just to show this guy that at least I'm alive. At least there's one person in this whole stream of commuters who's not dead yet. But I guess the pressure of normalcy and conformity crushes me and I end up just being one of the crowd.
Another time, I'm walking up the same tunnel and I see the saxophone man, but he's not playing his saxophone. Instead he's just sitting there, his skeletal legs primly crossed, elbow resting on his knee, hand resting on his chin. And I see that he's talking to this guy who's just standing there nodding his head, and as I walk by I hear him say - I realize this is the first time I've ever heard him vocally speak - "...the money accumulates interest."
Of course! The money accumulates interest!
The money fucking accumulates interest.
And his voice is just what I imagined it to be - low, a little raspy, like hes had one too many packs of cigarettes in his day. But completely level and clear.
Changing topics.
A little while ago my friend Heidi IMed me and right off the bat asked me what kind of guy I imagined her being with. I asked her to elaborate. She said, "If I was walking down the street with boyfriend X and ran into you, who would he be?" Which I thought was a very very random thing to ask, especially given that I haven't spoken to her in many weeks. But this is precisely why Heidi is so amusing.
Anyway, since I still had no idea what she expected from me, she gave me an example and detailed for me the type of guy she imagined me with. Apparently my boyfriend X would be 5'11" with brown hair and brown eyes, my age, in Gallatin, plays the guitar and hates John Mayer, loves Woody Allen movies, plays racquetball and/or squash, and is from Connecticut and is pursuing music because he can afford to live off of his family's money forever. If he were a color he would be mahogany with lime green trim. Also, he apparently wouldn't have a very firm handshake, and could possibly have the last name Malone.
Hm.
posted by Deb Oh at 11:45 PM
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