The Word of Thy Lord

"Damn tourists!"

It's an exclamation of frustration…but  when I say it, and I say it often, I mean it as nothing more than a joke.  (Except when those tourists are walking too damned slowly right in front of me…I  mean, for god's sake, Greta, I'm a stereotypical New Yorker -- I got places to  go!)

See, I'm a playful sort, so usually I'll blurt out my little exclamation to the tourists themselves – and even though they're speaking broken  English (being from Kansas and all), they get it. They get that I'm just putting on the Exacerbated New Yorker act.

So there I am on the train this day, black coat buttoned up, sitting up all nice and proper, minding my own business really, and I notice a gaggle of confused tourists (they're easy to spot:  they're the frightened people not wearing black, not talking on BlueTooth headphones and not giving a "Fuck You!" to some stranger with their finger, hand, arms, semaphore flags, flashcards, nor forming the words out  letter-by-letter like cheerleaders at a basketball game).

These poor confused tourists were going south on the train when they meant to go north. This is a common error because, apparently, there was a consortium of muckety-mucks somewhere in this city's past that made some very serious decisions about the ease-of-use of the subway. That decision? Make the signs as  useless as possible. (Example: "1 trains stop at this platform M-F 5am-11pm. Late-night 2,3 trains stop at yellow line. Except Sunday from 8am-10pm. Local  trains on next platform. Except on Saturday, 2, 3 trains stop at Midnight to local track 1 at 8am. Except M-F, trains stop, trains go, local 1, 2, not 3,  trains across tracks, M-F after midnight before 7am, Tue, Thu, Mar, An, Tee with a lime twist." [That's a real sign – enter the northern southwest exit at Time  Square East between 12 and 12.]). I watched the confused tourists for a short  time, then gave them much needed directions to help them out.

I was very  polite about the whole thing – leaning in with an "excuse me" and adding a "if I  can be of some assistance, you might want to go…" and all that rot. The mid-westerner tourists took my advice ("Go west on 42nd, young man!"), thanked me and went along on their merry way.

Under my buttoned-up top coat, I  had on black pants and a black collared shirt. And, as said, I was sitting quite  properly upright and all that, there on the subway, holding my book closed with my left hand, saving my page with the forefinger of my right hand. The book was small and thick, about the size of a bible I'd guess, with a hard cover of faded  pink. Put all that together and perhaps I looked like I was about to give a sermon.

After politely imparting directions to the terribly lost  mid-westerners, I turned to the middle-aged conservative white woman next to me and said, jokingly, "Damn tourists!" She didn't get the joke.   Proven by what she said next: "So are you a preacher?...I was just wondering what you thought of the war in Iraq."

Hmm.

Yes. I'm a preacher. And  I, as one would expect after politely giving some strangers some direction (in  their lives of course), was damning these poor, pitiful creatures to the depths of fire and brimstone for all eternity as no one shall ever need  directions in my city and DAMN THOSE WHO DO, FOR THEY
SHALL FEEL MY WRATH AND  FOREVER BURN IN THE PIT FOR THEIR WRETCHED MISDEEDS! Yeesh.  Damn New Yorkers.



What Superman Complex?

This story, I must admit, is particularly self-indulgent. And I admit this outright as the people I  meet neither do, nor even say, anything interesting. (It can even be debated  whether I do either of those things myself). But the fact that it happened, and  it happened exactly as I tell it, was fun enough for me...

I lived in Queens for a time. And the journey from Forest Hills into Manhattan was a fairly lengthy one, even if you were on an express train. However, the express train could reach some pretty swift speeds along the bumpy, underground paths and  would take some of those turns pretty hard.

One unusual day, where commuters were packed-in not-too-tightly, I found myself just one of a handful  of people without a seat. A book in one hand, a pole leading from floor to ceiling in the other, I stood there, almost dead center of the car, an unassuming guy ready for action, on the lookout for
trouble! Who knows when the two mid-forties secretarial types flanking me might need me to spring into  action!

As I read my book, I happened to notice one of the women nearby was having a heck of a time balancing, despite holding tight to a hand rail. So when it happened, I was already on alert!

The train took a sharp turn and Woman No.1 started to go down! Holding onto the pole with my left hand, I  pivoted on my left foot and spun her way, catching her as she fell backwards into in my right arm (hand still holding the book I'd been reading). I'd given myself enough momentum that, when the woman was delicately placed back into a  standing position, I continued my swing around the pole -- just in time to catch Woman No.2! All done so smoothly, I must say, that it looked planned. 

Completing my 360, I went back into position -- receiving a couple of  thank yous -- and nonchalantly nodded my head. I then casually turned the page and continued reading my book.

Yes, Lois, just another day on the subway  for a mild-mannered reporter of a great metropolitan newspaper.
 

!#s@* F#a$ #!%ch@$

I got on the train at what was the first (and last) stop on this line. There were about seven or eight people in the car.

I sat down next to another 30-something. He was wearing a Mets baseball cap and slowly downing a diet soda.

And he made this noise as he looked at me: "Ep!"

I thought perhaps he was being, in some way I could not comprehend, funny.

He drank more soda. And he soon made the noise: "Ep!"

The conductor sounded the “doors closing”  warning (for non-New Yorkers: this is a "ding-ding" sound which, as a warning is ineffectual since it sounds while the doors close - watch your hands, them bitches close fast and hard!).

And the guy did it again:  "Ep!"

So, at that moment, I had to wonder, was this some sort of a hiccup  or maybe an odd belch?

"Ep!"

I tried not to look at him. Maybe he's  nuts. Maybe he’s waiting for me to look - that's all the excuse this nebbish with glasses who wears a Mets baseball cap needed to take out a steak knife and  strike his blade through the heart of a man who was just leisurely reading an issue of Us Weekly perhaps one
seat too close for this guy's  comfort.

"Ep!" he said with conviction.

I looked again. He seemed like a nice guy...a Mets fan, but still a nice guy.

"Hey," I said, "you all right?" The question was false concern to be sure. If you read between the lines, what I'm really saying is "What’s your freakin' problem, Professor Peabody?! You need attention that badly?"

He explained simply, "I have Tourette's."

My tone of slight derision immediately changed to one of  true interest and concern (the shameful embarrassment of my previous thoughts apparently well-concealed). He continued to explain that noises set him off, and  he needs to imitate them when he hears 'em. His "Ep!" is a sort of coping  mechanism - he says that rather than shouting "ding-ding!" (given the choice, a perfectly logical decision). The soda helps to distract him as well.

One more thing I learned: apparently most people do indeed think he's nuts or, oddly, purposefully trying to bug them.

What kind of callous person would think such things? I dunno. What I do know is that the next time I find myself at Shea Stadium, I’m gonna make sure I give a mighty "Ep!" to the home team.
 

Keith Planit is a comedian and writer currently in pre-production on a satirical Off Broadway musical. These stories are part of his as-yet-unpublished book, 72 People I've met on the Subway. More of his work is available at youtube.com/planitreality. Planit can be reached at Ex1Machina AT aol.