Shout, Shout, Let It All Out…

While riding the subway into Manhattan and back to the Bronx this past Sunday, I encountered something unusual—not a solitary soul panhandling. My trips, however, were far from uneventful. Foremost, there was this fashionably dressed, heavily ringed, and unmasked fellow who entered a subway car full of masked riders. He stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. One and all promptly discovered that this man without a mask had a considerable chip on his shoulder, which is a volatile combo in the underground nowadays. He had barely taken his seat before abruptly springing to his feet and getting in the face of a sixty-something-year-old woman across the aisle from him. Roaring at the top of his lungs, with spittle settling in various nooks and crannies of the previously sanitized subway car, he queried: “What? What? What?”

I surmised that the poor woman merely gave her fellow straphanger a look, probably not even a dirty one. I had little doubt that this creep was chumming for a confrontation from somebody—anybody—in the masked majority. The now alarmed recipient of his wrath bolted from her seat and sidled up to a young guy, which is frowned upon in the pandemic. Considering their close proximity, I assumed they knew one another, but apparently—as events unfolded—she was merely seeking protection from an unpredictable, scary subway loon. A loon, by the way, who kept looking around the subway car to make eye contact and initiate further conflict. He was unsuccessful. To complete this man’s psychological profile: He rambled on about homosexuality and pedophilia at one point. Finally, to the relief of all concerned, including me, he exited the train at Columbus Circle, where there were ample options to board another train and stir the pot on the A, C, or D subway line.

Shortly after his departure, a religious fanatic entered the train, sat down, and without pause made an impassioned pitch for Jesus. While his presentation was largely benign, he was—like his more sinister predecessor—mask-free. The man concluded his spiel by offering one-and-all a “Path to Salvation” how-to pamphlet, but there were no takers. Eventually, as the train reached lower Manhattan, he and I were the only ones left in the car. Just before exiting, I was offered a pamphlet—which I accepted—and a blessing, too. What I spied in the bright light of day thereafter were a lot of empty storefronts and surviving restaurants gamely endeavoring to carry on with outdoor dining on the sidewalks and in the streets as the leaves turn and colder weather beckons.

On my return trip, all was calm until the last leg of the journey when a young guy entered the car from an adjoining one. This lateral movement is very often an ominous indicator. Lunatics and car hoppers go hand-in-glove in the subway system. Anyway, this fellow opted to sit directly across from two little nuns. Focusing exclusively on the habited duo, he without delay began ranting—really ranting—about a mother witnessing her son shot down on the street and other delicate matters. Eyes fixed on the nuns the whole time, there was no letup for several long stops. It was hard for me to determine whether he had a grievance against God—and religion—or was delivering a fire-and-brimstone sermon. The nervous nuns nonetheless nodded their heads in faux-agreement. A debate didn’t seem appropriate, or even a conversation for that matter. At long last, the raving tapered off, but not before the man took some shots at homosexuality, which, I’ve observed, is a favorite talking point in many unsolicited subway homilies. When he reached his stop, he said to the nuns, “God bless you” and “Have a good day now.” His parting salvo to all of us in the car was “Don’t be a slave to your phones!” Even the diminutive old nuns were transfixed by their smartphones throughout the subway ride—until, of course, fate moved its huge hand.

(Photographs from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)