"GOOD DAY LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. SORRY TO DISTURB YOU, MY NAME IS TWON. I'M NOT HERE TO SELL CANDY FOR ANY BASKETBALL UNIFORMS OR YOUTH PROGRAM OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT. I'M HERE SELLING CANDY TODAY FOR ME, SO I CAN HAVE SOME MONEY IN MY POCKET AND HOPEFULLY STAY OUT OF TROUBLE. I COULD BE OUT ROBBING SOMEONE RIGHT NOW...IT COULD BE YOU!
IF YOU'D LIKE TO BUY SOME CANDY FROM ME, LET ME JUST SAY THAT IT'S ONLY A DOLLAR. I KNOW I HAVE A PEANUT M&Ms BOX, A TWIZZLERS BOX AND A STARBURSTS BOX, BUT I DON'T HAVE NONE OF THAT. ALL I HAVE LEFT ARE SOME TIGER POPS, A HANDFUL OF RAISINETS AND SOME LEFTOVER PEANUT BRITTLE FROM MY LITTLE SISTER'S CANDY SALE FROM SCHOOL. OH, AND SOME SKITTLES.
I THANK YOU FOR YOUR ATTENTION AND SAY GOD BLESS YOU AND HAVE A GOOD DAY!
EXCUSE ME, WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME CANDY?
EXCUSE ME, WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME CANDY?"
(TWON GOT A LOTTA VANILLA DOLLARS THAT DAY...LOL)
Here I am, headed in late to work on a Friday. Not just late. I'm talkin' 2pm late. Who does that? Apparently, I do, since I had to wait for a furniture delivery that was supposed to come at 10am. Of course it came after 1. So I board the train at 135th Street, the #3 train to Wall Street. I've read the paper already, so it's just me observing the masses as they hop on and off the 7th Avenue express.
**Quick note that belies that last sentence: If it's the 7th Avenue express, and I live on 7th Avenue, why do I have to walk to Lenox (aka 6th Ave) to catch the train? Hmmmm....Moving on.
A few things on the ride downtown made me wonder what its gonna be like when I get older. A black gentleman, probably in his 60s, boarded at 116th Street. He was dressed sharp, complete with derby, button down shirt, slacks and briefcase. Picture James Earl Jones without the bass in his voice. He thanked the gentleman to my right for sliding over so he could sit, and pulled out his New York Times.
And I thought...that's how I wanna be when I get older--cool, calm, polite and well-read.
At 42nd Street, an older white gentleman came on and stood by the closing doors of which you're supposed to stand clear. He was bald, wore a nice shirt and some Timberland shoes. Picture Uncle Junior from The Sopranos. He seemed alright--until I observed more closely. Turns out ole dude had on some Dockers. Pretty smooth, especially with the Timbs, right? Well, not so much. His Dockers...had a drawstring. A DRAWSTRING where the belt was supposed to be. HUH?!?!? I've never seen that before. Regular looking pants, Docker-ish, but with a drawstring. I was bamfuffled.
So I stared for a second, then glanced up to his face again...and he was nodding his head in no particular direction as if in agreement with someone. He mumbled some words and then nodded again. This IS New York, so I tried to look in the direction he was looking...wasn't nobody there. Yup. Old dude was crazy. Just like Uncle Junior. I swear, after seeing that, plus the drawstring, if he woulda started singing some arias, I wouldn't have been surprised in the least.
Pretty full first entry, huh? That's what I say. In the words of the late night salesman who hawks the ginsu knife collection, "But wait...there's more!!!"
Picture it...96th Street. White people nirvana. It's Pleasantville up in that piece. There were, count 'em, SIX stops where anything coulda happened that most black people would've laughed off, dismissed the antics as one of their own showin' their ass and moved on.
In a perfect world, it would've happened that way. It should've still happened that way. Get it out of his system before we reach Vanilla Lane. But no. Once again, antics by an unbalanced black man gave people--black and white--reason to shake their heads, hide behind magazines and clutch their purses. Let's call him Sweat-T.
Why Sweat-T? Because he had on some tight sweats and a dirty tee shirt. That's all. LOL Well, T, in all of his lopsided logic, decided that 96th Street was the perfect time to test the moves he learned while watching this week's episode of Smallville. Yup. He proceeded, as if on mentally melted down cue, to rip his jacket open and "fly" through the car.
Lemme repeats me-self. T, in the middle of mixed company, showed the big ASS on his chest, flapping his arms as if he was about to take flight and making the airplane noise that usually.accompanies.such.nonsense. And me? What did I do? Well, I did what any other black person should've done at that moment: prayed that T stayed away from me and would "fly" his ass outta the car.
What, did you expect me to get up and apologize on behalf of Clark Mental? Tap dance to offset his erratic exhibition? Maybe fly alongside him and make it seem like we were re-enacting a scene from Peter Pan? NOPE. Not me. I clutched my butter knife and wish a muhfucka would come near me and ask me to join him in fighting imaginary subway crimes. LOL
Maybe it was the sight of Vanilla Lane that sparked his synapse collapse. Maybe that's his kryptonite. LOL All I know is two things--he shoulda got that out of his system sooner AND I cannot make these things up. Lawd.
I think...I might have to start taking the bus. One day into this journal and I'm already realizing that these.people.are.crazy. I'm fried.