April 28, 2010

Misery is public transportation

After fleeing a shitty party in the depths of Fort Green (or was it Bedstuy), Brothers and I huddled under the same umbrella searching for the same subway station we arrived in. The G train is notorious in Brooklyn for being the worst train ever. To begin with, it's a cross-town route so it only goes from Queens to Brooklyn, never Manhattan. You would have to transfer. Also, it comes so infrequently that the G sometimes is referred to as the Ghost train. But you knew this already, didn't you.

When we finally backtrack correctly, we descend the stairs realizing a train had just left. Shit. We curse the empty platform we're sharing with a skinny salt and peppered aging hipster type.
"Which way do I go for Williamsburg?" he asks softly with a european accent.
"That's the way we're going so just follow us," Brothers offers.

As we're on the platform we make light conversation with Salt'n'Pepper that echoes in the fluorescent-lit tunnel that always makes you feel desolate and like a sucker. The man looks vaguely familiar to me and I suspect he's one of the dudes in Blond Redhead (the two guys in that band are twins I am told. One of them is married to the girl in that band, and the other is the drummer and gay. I think). I type that on my cellphone and show it to Brothers who raises a brow.

This suspicion is confirmed when we board the G train (the wrong one, since the track work redirected us to another train which was headed in the direction we came from) and a glassy eyed dude pipes up upon seeing Blond Redhead, "Are you the drummer from Blond Redhead? I've seen you guys several times. Sorry I never just say that, but that's cool."

BR looks a bit sheepish but he doesn't deny his identity. He smiles and nods. Upon hearing that exchange, a few passengers glance over, tittering away, delighted. I don't know why but I'm annoyed. I kind of liked that I wasn't 100% sure it was him. New York city offers little gems like this to you, generally always when you end up someplace you never expected or planned to be. Like on the G. I wanted to savor the modest serendipity and it was sullied in a heartbeat by some mouth-breathing hipster.

"Is this train going towards Queens?" I ask said mouth-breather.
"No, this is headed to Church Ave." he replies, stars still in his eyes.

I turned to his muse and say, "This isn't going where we want to go. Do you want to just split a cab?"
He nods and follows us as we get up and leave the train. Everyone looks a little sadder and that gives me probably too much satisfaction than is considered healthy and not psychotic. You kids couldn't play it cool so we're taking him away, good day!

We somehow managed to find a yellow taxi in the middle of Bedstuy and in 10 minutes were home, making polite conversation in the car about Italy, our neighborhoods and other boring things. Turns out he lives just a few blocks north of us. I don't understand why an international rock star would take the subway, let alone the worst subway ever, but I guess everyone's got to get where they're going one way or another.
He ends up paying for most the cab and Brothers and I scamper off after our farewells, doing running high fives all the way back to the Habitat.

Shame he plays for the B team. Dude's a total fox.

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