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Mouth | Nov 26 2001

Bad scene in the Fulton Street station. A “police action” knocked the 4/5 out of service at rush hour, stranding thousands. I ended up in a corridor packed with commuters, many of whom were trying to make their way back to the 2, having waited in vain for the 4/5. My group, a smaller group, dreamed of reaching the Brooklyn-bound J train via a stairwell on the 4/5 platform. We had time to dream, too, for we were moving at a rate, as I figured it, of about five feet a minute, or three hundred feet an hour, about half the speed of a crawling baby.

Remarkably, the vibe was mellow. Yes, a few scattered “jesus-fucking-christ”’s could be heard, but overall the crowd was composed and orderly and even a bit philosophical, for a crowd. Impressive. But then this guy came up the stairs who evidently needed to BE SOMEWHERE, in contrast to the rest of us, who were merely STANDING IDLY IN THE SUBWAY and for no other reason than that we ENJOYED going groin to butt with our fellow New Yorkers.

He was large, as in tall, perhaps six-five, and broad. Also violent, I decided, for only a violent person would do such a thing. I recognized him immediately. He was the same guy who drives like he’s playing a video game, weaving between lanes at ninety miles an hour.

How I hate him.

I said, “Friend, we’re all going the same place.”

He said, “Yeah, well, fuck you.”

I said, “Yeah, well, fuck you.”

Actually, no, I said no such thing. I said nothing. I didn’t want him to smash me in the mouth.

Jesus had it easy, for He could heal people.