No rest for the weary, no sleep for the wicked, no time to write (here).

As T.S. Eliot once said, “these are the days when you wish your bed was already made.”

I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow on the earlier side, so if I get to write, it’ll be on the later side. Of course, that would mean that Teresa would have to clean the entire apartment by herself (which is only fair).

But I have so much to share. You’ll have to settle for just this:

A man who, I assumed based on his demeanor and odor, is homeless and prone to engage in fistfights (what’s the worst that’ll happen; a jail cell is more home-like than the benches in a subway station) took great offense when I stood up from my seat to let the elderly gentleman next to me exit the bus. Apparently (and I maintain that he either made this up or suffers from what Samuel L. Jackson had in Unbreakable), one of the bags of groceries I had to move for my seatmate’s departure brushed against his leg (he was standing in the aisle — the bus was mad crowded, yo). The following is the verbatim conversation we had:

“Oh, you don’t see somebody leg there?!!?!!?”
“No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Well I’m fucking telling you now, you fat piece of shit!!!!!”
“O… K. I’m sorry that I hit your leg. It won’t happen again.”
“You GODDAMN RIGHT that shit ain’t gonna happen again, you fat piece of shit!”
(I go back to doing my SuDoku, another man of similar wealth and taste — or lacks thereof — approaches my new BFF)
“I thought that was you!”
“Hey!”
(they embrace)
“This fat piece of SHIT (which he leans over the elderly woman now sitting in the seat — thankfully — separating me from him to yell at me) act like I ain’t even there!”

(This is when I realize what this is about: my bag didn’t hurt him — life did. He is a member of the invisible class. He yearns not to be accepted or loved — merely acknowledged. And that’s when I feel pity for him [albeit mixed with a healthy fear for my groceries, if not my life].)

“Ha ha. You all worked up, man!”
“Well, who the fuck does that fat piece of shit think he is?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He don’t give a fuck!”
“Uh-huh.”

Just before we reached the Smith & 9th subway stop, the two men exited the bus. I breathed a small sigh of relief. The lady next to me leaned over and said, “Thank you for not fighting back and just ignoring him.” “Oh, no problem. I’m sorry you had to be subjected to his yelling,” I replied.

“Oh, you have no reason to apologize. I saw what happened. He was just being a dick.”

Only in New York, kiddies. Only in New York.

(And happy birthday, Bethany. You go, girl.)