The Go-Go Girl and the Music Man

It’s life in a nutshell—or, in this instance, a New York City subway car. Yesterday, my experiences therein ran the gamut from the sublime to the ridiculous. Well, not exactly, but close enough. For starters, a woman’s stroller had me and several other passengers pinned down—helplessly trapped in our seats—for several stops that seemed like an eternity. While her two children playfully dueled across the aisle with their lightsabers, Ma seemed oblivious to it all. In a different setting, I would have said the kids were quite cute in their youthful exuberance—and uttered the appropriate “Ahhhhh!”—but not in a jam-packed subway car. When the trio exited, I, for one, heaved a huge sigh of relief.

Being annoyed, though, is par for the course—and a never-ending story—in the Land Down Under. Shortly thereafter, two middle-aged women entered the train. They were in spirited conversation as they walked through the doors and never broke stride as they located seating. I immediately profiled them as irritating Manhattan elitists. Their haughty tone and the subject matter of their long-winded exchange spoke volumes.

When a young homeless man materialized, my profile of the two women was confirmed. He promptly informed we straphangers that he had recently lost both his job and apartment. The poor fellow added that he felt embarrassed to be doing what he was doing. While asking for money for food, or food itself, he apologized for the intrusion. One of the elite Chatty Cathys—the more annoying of the two—eventually held out her hand while simultaneously snapping her fingers and saying, “Go…go…go!” With her beach ball-shaped head and short, stylish haircut, she reminded me of a woman I know named Peg. So, permit me to call her "Peg-head" from this point forward.

Peg-head summoned the homeless guy over with her hand outstretched. She had a dollar bill wedged between her index finger and middle finger and a twenty-dollar bill between her ring finger and little finger. Peg-head, however, made it abundantly clear that the former and not the latter was his for the taking. But what was that all about?

Anyway, the grateful man accepted the dollar bill, said “thank you,” and continued his appeal. But Peg-head desperately wanted the guy out of her space once and for all. He was clearly cramping her style.

So, Peg-head cried out once more, “Go…go…go!” But this go-round she dismissively motioned with her hand for him to “Go…go…go!” To his credit, he would have none of it. “You can’t talk to me like that,” he said. “That was very rude!” His parting salvo was “I don’t want your money!” The homeless man handed Peg-head back her dollar. She was smugly unfazed and returned to her heart-to-heart with her partner in the crime. I got the impression that this interchange meant very little to them. And that it probably wouldn’t be brought up at their next cocktail party or co-op board meeting. I was nonetheless impressed with this homeless fellow’s resolve and fighting spirit. Even in his darkest hour, he wasn’t going to take lying down—for a measly dollar—such a belittling humiliation.

And now for something completely different! On my return trip, loud music could be heard on the train as various passengers entered. Those already in the car looked around, wondering who among them was the offending party. Nowadays, people typically blast music into their ears only. But this scenario was something of a throwback to the Boombox 1980s. In due course, I pinpointed the culprit and the mini-sound machine on his lap—a twenty-first century boombox, I surmised.

The Music Man resembled a goon from Central Casting. He wore this smirk on his face that dared anyone in earshot to say something to him. Nobody did. I didn't like his hip 'do, either. Just before we parted company, the Music Man stepped between cars at the 181st Street—George Washington Bridge—station, which is closer to the center of the Earth than most. At first, I thought he was moving to the next car, which would have been fine by me. But the Music Man remained stationary, so I figured that—the next best guess—he was relieving himself. The guy then roared out—at the top of his lungs—“Help!” I didn’t think he really needed any and none was forthcoming. Moments after this primal scream of his, the Music Man returned to the car—with a sneering smile on his face—and left my world for good at the next stop. Music still playing and singing right along, it was good-bye and good riddance.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)