Tag Archives: subway

Religium

Two More Notes from the Delayed but Impending End of All Humanity

NOTE #1: When I stepped on the 1 train this morning, I soon discovered I was standing right next to a Jesus Guy. Like most subway panhandlers, this Jesus Guy was smart enough to start preaching only after the doors had closed and the train began moving. Although it’s not really accurate to call this guy a panhandler. He wanted no change, only a few moments of your time so you could be informed that you were going to hell, and why.

He was not a rant-y rave-y Jesus Guy. (Once a ubiquitous feature of the New York landscape, the Crazy Jesus Guy has all but disappeared from our midst.) He spoke in measured, mellifluous tones buoyed by a West Indian accent. I had headphones on, but I was listening to a podcast, so I was catching about every third word that came out of his mouth.

The train paid him little mind. Subway crowds seldom give Jesus Guys the time of day, but this one seemed to aggressively ignore him. This is not a good week to be a Jesus Guy, what with the postponed Apocalypse. It was like he was selling Y2K insurance on January 1, 2001. Nothing this guy said (that I heard, anyway) indicated he was on board with the Family Radio Ministry theology, but simply being in a subway car at this hour preaching at people on their way to work implied he might be.

As I said, I missed most of his sermon until one line stuck out at me: “I have the mayor’s son coming over to my house.” I think he may have prefaced this by saying, “Let’s imagine,” or something to that affect, as if he was relating a parable. But since I didn’t hear that part, it sounded like he was describing an actual impending visit from the mayor’s son.

“I have the mayor’s son coming over to my house. I am going to prepare a feast,” he said. At that point, the train had pulled into a station, and as soon as the doors opened, he beat a hasty retreat into the car behind us–mid-story! You finally piqued my interest, Jesus Guy, and then you bolt because you got a tough crowd? You’ll never play the big rooms with that kind of attitude, Jesus Guy. Now I’m left hanging, wondering where that story went. What did you serve the mayor’s son? Did you serve cordials afterward, or just coffee? So many unanswered questions.

NOTE #2: As I wrote in this post, there’s this odd dichotomy amongst the millennial Christian set, in the sense that they seem to want the world to end because they think it’s so rotten, and yet they also vote in droves for people who they think will prevent the world from ending. But I wonder if a politician could capitalize on the opposite instinct. What if you actually declared yourself the Antichrist and promised to bring upon the Biblical Apocalypse?

There’s a million variations on what the Apocalypse would entail. But if you believe that it’s coming and coming soon, you also believe it is ultimately a good thing, because it will end Satan’s grip upon this planet and bring Jesus back and, I dunno, make more puppies or something. So wouldn’t the person who pledged to make the Apocalypse happen be the best person to elect? In other words, shouldn’t you want The Antichrist to come to power?

Believers, I’m sure, would counter, The real Antichrist would never openly declare himself as such. Okay, so how about some enterprising young politician works on molding himself into a vague resemblance of The Antichrist as described in the Bible? Then, people will subconsciously vote for him hoping that in so doing, they will hasten the day when they will be assumed into heaven?

Any politicians who want to steal this idea, I will gladly accept a minor position in your Satanic cabinet.

NYC, Retro-rage

Random Acts of Retro-Rage

This may come as a shock to those who read this site, but I hold on to grudges for a long time. Even when they don’t directly involve me. Scratch that: especially when they don’t directly involve me. I’m still furious at Chuck Klosterman for something he wrote in The New York Times year-end “The Lives They Lived” back in 2002. Ask me about it some time if you’d like to hear me rant for 45 minutes.

This is why it may be unwise for me to live in New York City. Conventional wisdom says people get lost in such a large metropolis, but that’s not true. You actually run into people you know all the time, because with so many people in such a relatively small space, there’s a greater likelihood of meeting an acquaintance (math!). Running into random folks can be a wondrous thing. Back when I was younger and childless, a chance encounter on a weekend could turn into an odyssey of awesomeness. “Hey, we’re gonna go to this bar and then check out this band and then we’re gonna barbecue on somebody’s rooftop at 3 in the morning. Wanna come with?”

Then there’s the alternative. Last week, I was exiting the West 4th Street station on my way to work. Some days I’m already in a bad mood before I even arrive at the office. This was not one of those days. I wasn’t whistling and twirling a cane and doffing my cap to young ladies, but I wasn’t predisposed to be angry or grizzled, either. I was simply wondering what the day might bring me.

As I got to street level, I saw a few paces ahead of me, heading toward the subway I’d just left, an old boss. I’ve had good, civil relationships with most of the bosses in my life. This was not one of them. Although truth be told, it wasn’t the work relationship that was strained. It was more the laying me off when I had a toddler that bugged me.

I saw this man trudging up the sidewalk, hands thrust into the pockets of his khakis, head slumped downward, his thinning hair sloping toward the sidewalk, and I felt all this rage bubble up within me. Did I still wish I had the job from which he laid me off? No. Am I happy where I am now? Yes. Did everything ultimately work out? I suppose it did. Still, I had this intense, fist-clenching fury at the sight of him for putting me through the worry and self-doubt and pain and struggle of looking for a new job when I had a tiny life to care for. Fuck this guy forever for doing that to me, I thought. I don’t care if he donates his entire salary to the Red Cross, this guy’s a monster.

And as I’m thinking all these things, he must sense my eyes on him, since they’re trying to bore a hole in his pasty head. He looks up, locks eyes with me, and gives me this quizzical look, like Why is this person staring at me? He clearly has no idea who I am. I’d like to think I don’t look all that different from the last time I saw him, and that’s probably true. But my face has been lost in the mists of time for him. He hasn’t a clue who this scowling weirdo is, and picks up his pace a bit, proceeding as quickly as he can into the underground.

I hadn’t thought about this person in years, and all it took was one second to make me furious at him all over again. Meanwhile, Ex-Boss has clearly given me even less thought, since he hadn’t even recognized me. There’s very few things worse in this world than unrequited hate.

NYC

Never Forget (The Condiments)

In my brief time working in the Wall Street area, I’ve discovered that the shortest route between two points is not always a straight line. Certain streets are completely choked with tourists and narrowed by incessant construction, and should be avoided at all costs unless you want some homicidal inspiration.

Broadway is particularly awful, so if I need to get somewhere on that street, I will often double back on a parallel avenue, walk as far up- or downtown as I need to go, then cut back to the main drag. Though this might seem unnecessarily complicated, it’s actually much faster than trying to wade through acres of gawking Midwesterners (no offense, Midwesterners).

On Tuesday, I ventured away from the office to grab some lunch, and on the way back, I walked uptown on Trinity Place. While not completely crowd free, you can actually move along this street faster than a snail’s pace. It runs behind Trinity Church, at a lower elevation than Broadway. A majestic stone wall marks the church’s western extremity, and a beautiful walkway connects it, mysteriously, to a much more modern office building across the street.

As I walked past the stone wall, I noticed one entrance–called Cherub’s Gate–was wide open. I realized that I’d never been to Trinity Church, somehow, and that nothing was stopping me from going now. So I climbed the stairs and found myself on a tiny little green island of the 18th century in the middle of downtown Manhattan, filled with crumbling headstones, most of which are more than 200 years old.

It was bizarre to walk among the dilapidated tombstones and read their somber, weirdly spelled inscriptions. (“Here lyes Goodye Price, ded of Consumption aged thirty-fyve yearf.”) It was even weirder to see people spending their lunch there, yapping on cell phones, chowing down on deli buffet food in clamshell trays. Though odd, this didn’t seem disrespectful, really. It was a surprisingly quiet, calm oasis in a very noisy part of the city, and one of the few spots in that neighborhood where a person could truly get away from it all for a little while.

I should also add that as I strolled between the graves, I was listening to a Jean Shepherd show from 1960 on my iPod. During that period, Shep’s shows were particularly philosophical and dark. The setting plus the soundtrack combined to give me an eerie, melancholy feeling.

And then I felt something else. Actually, I smelled something else. Something acrid and pungent. Such smells are not unusual in New York, of course, but this smell was not bad per se, just unwelcome. And yet also strongly familiar.

And then I remembered: There was a Subway franchise right next to Trinity on Broadway. I was smelling the unmistakable reek of pickled Subway vegetables wafting through the churchyard. I have smelled that smell many times, coming from my own hands, several hours after eating a six-inch Veggie Delight. I don’t know what they use to preserve those vegetables for longhaul truck travel, but you need auto mechanic-grade abrasive soap to remove that stench from your fingers.

This smell was not faint. The churchyard was drenched in it. The final resting place of Alexander Hamilton and Robert Fulton, overshadowed by the olfactory shadow of five-dollar foot-longs. If such great men can be overtaken by the thorny talons of Jared, what hope is there for a rest of us?