If there is anything I have learned during my time in public transit, it's "Don't be a complete jerk to the crazy person on the T. You'll probably see him/her again."
This held true this evening when I saw the same man who showed me how to properly stretch the other day. This evening, he did not have enormous fake flowers stuck to his hat, but he was carrying a bunch of pussy willows and several plastic grocery bags.
Tonight, he started talking about how the Mass General Hospital put him "back together" after he stepped on a landmine in the war (Vietnam?), how nigga is just a word and that there are white niggas and black niggas (the man, himself, was Black, so, I guess he can say that), and he even lowered himself to the floor and showed everyone how to stretch again. He was very vocal--as most crazy people are--and even told a woman to "knock that white nigga (the man she was with) out if he does anything wrong." At one point, he dropped his bags and sent a bottle of Budweiser and a little brown bottle of a different alcoholic liquid spinning across the floor of the train.
Oh, there were so many things I should've done.
I should've . . . shouted "Amen!" loudly every time he said something strange, told him that I didn't believe he was in the war and asked for specific details for him to prove it, or snatched away his pussy willows and ran off when the T came to my stop. He could have gotten more pussy willows when he's sleeping down by the river. No big deal.
24 March 2012
15 March 2012
(#32) The "Stretching" I Should've
Surprise, surprise, I met another crazy person on the T last night.
He was on older, thin gentleman who had a bounce in his step despite the cane he was using. I spotted him in the T station before getting on because he was very loud, had a brimmed hat with two huge fake flowers sticking out of it, and had a small American flag tucked into his shirt collar like a makeshift bib.
This gentleman ended up sitting five seats away from me when the train came. At first, I tried to just read my New Yorker but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something odd. The old guy was gripping a vertical handrail in each hand, his legs stretched out before him, and he was slowly sliding off the seat to the floor.
Thinking that he was slipping off the seat and needing help, I asked him if he needed help. He was, after all, pretty old looking and had a cane. The man replied that he was okay, that he was just stretching. He lowered himself onto the ground and began swinging his legs around, saying "You got to remember to breathe when you stretch" while making a bulgy-eyed, bitter beer face as he breathed in and out dramatically. "This is how I stay young," he said. "I'm 75 years old. But I know how to take a hit!"
I should've . . . told the guy I wanted to learn how to stretch like him and then followed his example, throwing myself on the floor of the T but stretching in ways that the man would not have approved of--just to make him try and explain himself and his unusual methods.
He was on older, thin gentleman who had a bounce in his step despite the cane he was using. I spotted him in the T station before getting on because he was very loud, had a brimmed hat with two huge fake flowers sticking out of it, and had a small American flag tucked into his shirt collar like a makeshift bib.
This gentleman ended up sitting five seats away from me when the train came. At first, I tried to just read my New Yorker but out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something odd. The old guy was gripping a vertical handrail in each hand, his legs stretched out before him, and he was slowly sliding off the seat to the floor.
Thinking that he was slipping off the seat and needing help, I asked him if he needed help. He was, after all, pretty old looking and had a cane. The man replied that he was okay, that he was just stretching. He lowered himself onto the ground and began swinging his legs around, saying "You got to remember to breathe when you stretch" while making a bulgy-eyed, bitter beer face as he breathed in and out dramatically. "This is how I stay young," he said. "I'm 75 years old. But I know how to take a hit!"
I should've . . . told the guy I wanted to learn how to stretch like him and then followed his example, throwing myself on the floor of the T but stretching in ways that the man would not have approved of--just to make him try and explain himself and his unusual methods.
04 March 2012
(#31) The "There's Spit In This" I Should've
So, my BFF came into town for Spring Break (Woooo! Spring Break! Party!) and I've been showing her around Boston.
We went to this great restaurant near Harvard Square called Bartley's. It's this amazing burger joint that has these specialty burgers with funny names such as the Viagra, the Michelle Obama, the Facebook, and many others. Even though the server was great and kept refilling on a regular basis, I had an urge to do something devilish.
I should've . . . spit in my water after it had just been refilled and then taken it up to the front counter and said "Uh. There's spit in this." The cashier would have looked at me in shock, at which point I would have slammed my fist on the counter and yelled "Someone spit in my water!" just so I could see how they would react, which I hope would have been in an Three-Stooges-Slapstick sort of way.
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