True Urban Legends

it happened in toronto, on the east/west train. a man surrounded by garbage bags (they coulda been filled with laundry) was sitting across from me, though i guess it was the public transit equivalent of kitty corner, as he was sitting facing the side and i was sitting facing front. anyways, he was one-handedly going to town on this rubik’s cube with such mastery that it was mesmerizing. the stickers were wearing out, and it’s not just the edges that look peeled off (my way of conquering the bastard), no, it was clear (he finished the thing at least four times while we were on the train, and it was his spectacle that prompted me to stay on for the entire line and back) that that was mere wear and tear. i would like to send him this (see above) because it is as beauty-full as his expression (or showing off, because, let’s face it, that often looks very good) but i’m afraid that he would callous up his left hand so bad that he would have to quit. his “outside the box” flaunting of a skill that few know how to channel properly reminds me of twisting language for one’s own means-it’s not how much you know of a language, but how you use it that’s important-for instance, if you can observe and understand the speech patterns, idioms, and cultural references of a language, that marks you as someone who truly gets that language, and no amount of studying grammar, vocabulary, or dialogues can prompt the same effect. 

so, it’s a good thing that i’m still packing a BC id (expired-ass as it is), because it was easier to feign ignorance about trying to sneak onto the train, blasted ossington station. but i’ve learned my lesson to pay my fare and not listen to cohorts.

going into jean-talon last week, i noticed this big dude look side to side, then drop to his knees and crawl under the turnstile with the agility of a cheetah. i was impressed, and reminded of jazz from dru hill, remember big dood who used to keep up with the rest of them in the choreography? even with all that jumping. go big doods, i’m in your corner.

i remember when i first got my cellphone. i fell into the trap of loud talking because i was in loud environments (aka public transit). i was taken to task loudly and publicly by a girl who obviously had a bad experience, but it was true, we disclose a lot of info to n’importe qui, oftentimes unbeknownst to us. i was reminded of this when i heard every single word that a girl was saying from a few seats over and behind her on the 105, and i had my headphones on. not only is it rude and noise pollution to speak on your cellular telephonic device in public, it’s probably not the best look for safety. 

so, as the first real “tempette” descends on montrill, the metros were packed today (though the green line going towards Angrignon at about 4:30pm was surprisingly empty) and though we’ve lost the ability to actually use our words (is “excuse me” that hard to say, “excusez-moi”?) it would seem that we are forced to get very intimate. case in point, today, i was close enough to be mortifyingly mesmerized by one woman’s horrible nail care-yo, red nail polish is nobody’s friend, especially when it starts to chip off, but it’s infinitely worse when it’s chipping off an otherwise not maintained raggedy ass jagged edge dirty, long set of nails. eeew. also, i examined the split ends in the head of the girl in front of me whose ass was pressed so firmly into my front that i swear we were vertically spooning. shoot.

i know that i’ve told this story, but i would be remiss to omit Chelle from this new series. i was on the F train, heading towards Sean P and Ghostface, and since i had gotten lost on my way back to Queens the night before, i wanted to make sure i was heading in the right direction. there was this woman across the way that seemed to be directing traffic, so i asked her. after deducing that i had to say in full “York Station” and not just “York” because that means something completely different (including “pork”, “portland”, etc.) she asked me (or aksed me) to write my name down on a piece of paper for her because “it’s pretty”. i felt funny just writing my name, so i gave her my email, but she didn’t have email, so she gave me her phone number and her cell, and graced me with conversation instead about how she’s getting her GED and trying to get her business on. she told me that she doesn’t get out much anymore because her main hangout partner got a boyfriend. so i invited her to the screening of Wild Style in the park, and she told me she didn’t have much money, well, hey, this was free! which launched a whole advice train of how to take advantage of the free musical concerts on Mondays in BK, but how you need to get there hours in advance because if you leave to go to the bathroom, you forfeit your seat. she also brought a souppot (but i only need to bring a cup because i’m small), didn’t wear any underpanties, and pee into it, wipe with a little masingil, and it’s good! oh, Chelle. the true urban legend-ary inspiration for this series, i do believe.

and they say that chivalry is dead, not on the orange line! i was going towards Cote Vertu, and noticed a muggin’ gentleman (wearing one of those faux fur jackets, polite or not, that shit has to go!) but he got up to offer his seat to an elderly woman as she came onto the train. witnessing this facilitated a whole host of other seat offerings all over the car and for the entire ride, including the same elderly lady offering her seat to a young father and his baby, etc. etc. see? we can *blink to good things too, or tip points, whatever….malcolm gladwell books seem to all blur at some point.

this again is a retrospective, so i don’t remember exactly where i was headed. there was an older gentleman with an overflowing bag of lemons. somehow, they tipped over, and he was exclaiming, “my lemons!” and was scrambling to pick them all up. he was of limited mobility, so some folks were trying to help him out. a young woman joined the hunt most vigorously, but you could tell she was operating with some apprehension as she didn’t seem like the type to voluntarily dive under and between peoples’ legs to capture the lemons that were now rolling through the car. so, when someone came in at a new stop and sat in her seat, she said nothing, just sighed and focused on her “ramassing”. someone else piped up though, or rather, pointed up and at her, and down at the lemons. not only did the sitting person humble himself to returning the seat, he helped her pluck the last lemon before. nobody was more tickled than the old man.

ok, this one dates back awhile, but still sticks out in my mind: i’m on the orange (i’ll assume) line, and my eavesdropping ears drift to a quiet conversation (aka, a real conversation, because they were just speaking to themselves, not the world) between two older gentleman, who were obviously very familiar, like, from the oldest generation of gay folks (and they’re still together) and it was a nice, everyday conversation that went like this:

the other night, rolling through Sherbrooke metro on my way home, i witnessed the most charming acoustic duo, two french ladies, one on guitar, the other on violin, harmonizing to r&b hits. amongst the tunes were “cry me a river”, “all i do”, and my heart almost fluttered as i heard the two french accents go all out on “why did 213, show up on your caller eye—-deeeeee?!”, yes, they were singing “it’s not right, but it’s ok” and the best part was this dood rolling through, kind of a goth looking mean mugger, couldn’t help himself, he was singing along as he passed them. serious, man. we don’t have the talent of NY subways, but we got heart, y’all.