But What Happened to the Organ-Grinder?

A tiny grizzled old man got on the downtown A-train at 125th St one Saturday afternoon. He walked very slowly, hunched over his cane, and huddled in his too-large navy coat against the cold. Once he got on, he made his way over to the opposite doors and carefully balanced his cane against them once the train starting moving. Suddenly he threw off his coat, revealing a nearly-complete organ-grinder's monkey outfit underneath, (lacking only the fez,) and started dancing spryly up and down the aisle of the train. As he did so, he sang a very odd and slightly off-key medley of various Broadway songs, pausing only to mention that one particularly mournful one was dedicated to his brother-in-law. Something about his performance reminded me of the creepy old man from the Six Flags ads, although this was less unsettling. Once we arrived at Columbus Circle, he put the coat back on and hobbled off the train with his cane.
I really think the whole thing would have been better if he'd brought a fez.

Electrified

I have a theory that there's always more excitement in the rear car of the train. Maybe it's because it's the farthest from the conductor and the motorman. Maybe it's because there was always more craziness at the back of the school bus, and some people are just trying to relive their glory days. Maybe it's just in my imagination. Anyhow, I was at least correct one Wednesday night, when I got on the rear car of downtown-bound A-train at 175th St. It was relatively empty, but certainly not quiet. A man sitting by himself at one end was very agitated, and seemed to be reliving many events in his life in quick succession, shouting his reaction to those events as he experienced them. He was very loud. At the other end of the car was a scrawny twentyish man with an electric guitar and a battery-powered amp whose volume had clearly been set to eleven. He tried out a variety of riffs until he felt satisfied, and then finally began with the usual, "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, for the interruption..." He then went on to tell us that he was on the cusp of becoming a very famous musician, and that he was going to play us what would be his first hit. Having thereby introduced himself, he launched into his song, which was TERRIBLE, and sounded a lot like a beginner guitar-player's attempt to channel Radiohead. Everyone grimaced, with the exception of the man at the other end of the car, who looked absolutely captivated, and immediately stopped yelling.
Two women sitting near me, who did not know each other, exchanged glances and started discussing how loud the car was. One pulled out a pair of headphones to shove in her ears, and the two got into a heated debate about which 99-cent store carried the best headphones.
Finally, the guitar-player stopped playing, and started walking around with his hat, asking for donations as a future famous rock-star. Since he clearly was no such thing, no one on the now-full car gave him any money. He looked puzzled for a moment, then changed tactics. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am homeless. I have not eaten all day. If you can spare some change, I would appreciate it." This was much more believable, and clearly more lucrative, based on the response. Even the now-calm man at the other end of the car put something in the hat, although I have no idea if it was money.

"We've Got Medicaid!"

I was minding my own business, reading my book on the A-train last evening. At 34th St, two teenage boys got on, and started shouting, "What time is it? It's show time! What TIME is it? It's SHOW time!!" Wearily, a few people looked up, but most continued to ignore them. The boys hit play on their boom box, and started blasting Kool and the Gang. (How old school!) One kept telling us that there would be flipping and stripping, the latter of which had me a little worried, while the other started stretching. Suddenly, they both went into some slightly odd but completely synchronized dance moves, hitting all kinds of things in the music. Then one started doing back flips on the moving train. When he was finished, the other one took a running leap at one of the poles in the center of the aisle, grabbing it upside down in midair, and spinning his way artfully to the bottom. Finally, one of them backed up to one end of the car and started running down the train, switching to flips partway through. He ended with a full layout, but misjudged the height of the car, CRACKING his head against the ceiling. Everyone jumped at the noise, but the other boy immediately said, "Don't worry--we've got Medicaid!"
They did, however, get out at the next stop without waiting to collect tips...

It's a Two-Fer

One evening last week, while waiting on the Bedford Ave station for the L to take me back to Manhattan, I heard the sounds of a trumpet. Normally, I would have enjoyed this, because I always like hearing music in the stations, but in this case, I would have preferred that the trumpeter practice a little more before choosing to play in public. Let's put it this way--while he wasn't playing "When the Saints Go Marching In," he might as well have been. I turned away from the trumpeter, and started staring down the tunnel, looking for the telltale gleam on the tracks that would indicate that a train was on its way. Suddenly, I realized that there were now two trumpets being played. I was surprised that the man's rudimentary music had prompted a jam session, but noticed that the second trumpeter was no better than the first one. I looked over to see who had joined in, but still saw only the one man there. He was, however, now playing two trumpets simultaneously. One was silver, one was brass, and he kept one pointed downward while the other tilted toward the ceiling. It's too bad that he didn't use the time that he spent learning this unusual skill to practice his actual playing, but I suppose that everyone needs a hook, right?

Would You Like My Seat?

Brooklyn-bound A-train, Wednesday evening. It's about 8:45, and a woman with a cane gets on the train at Columbus Circle. There are plenty of empty seats at this point, but she chooses to remain standing. At 42 St, a whole horde boards the train, and all empty seats are quickly filled. One man, after sitting down, notices the woman with the cane, who is still standing. He springs out of the seat, takes her elbow, and offers her his seat. She smiles and politely declines. He offers again. She thanks him again but tells him that she prefers to stand. He does not accept this, and continues to badger her to take his seat. She finally says, "I'll tell you what--if I change my mind, I'll ask you to get up."
"Well, would you rather I ask someone else to give up their seat?" he responds. Everyone within earshot starts laughing. We pull into 34th St, and he obviously decides that this is the best suggestion. He gets up again and stands in front of a triple-seat. "Alright," he says, "everybody up." So saying, he makes all three (oddly unprotesting) passengers stand up, then, with a flourish, directs the now-exhausted woman to the completely empty bench. She sits down with a smile and slight eyeroll. One of the displaced passengers sneaks around behind and snatches the man's former seat.
As we pull into 14th St, I stand to exit. The man takes my seat, saying loudly, "Whew! It's good to be able to sit down!"

The Beatbox Lumberjack

It was the day after Thanksgiving, and the Brooklyn-bound A-train was much less crowded than I would have expected, given all the Black Friday announcements during the weeks before. I was sitting at one end of an otherwise empty triple-seat, and across from me was a grizzled sixtyish man in a lumberjack jacket with a fur Cossack hat that was pulled down over his eyes. I thought that he was asleep, but as we pulled out of the next stop, he started to sing what I can only guess was a song that he was making up on the spot in a voice that sounded like it was seldom used for speech, let alone song. At the same time, a bickering couple had joined me on my bench. As he sang, the lumberjack's voice grew stronger, and he started to do NKOTB-style arm gestures to accompany his song. (Since he was holding a paper cup of coffee at the same, this was not only odd, but also messy.) One of the men in the couple beside me looked across the car and suddenly started beatboxing along with the ever louder song.
"What are you doing?" asked the other man in the couple.
The first man stopped his percussing. "You always say that I'm too introverted, so I'm expressing myself." He then resumed. I felt like I was stuck in the episode of Modern Family in which Mitchell joins a flashmob to impress Cameron. His partner looked shocked, but then smiled.
The lumberjack got off at the next stop, having fully roused himself at this point, and also having spilled all of the remaining coffee. He continued to sing as he left the train, and once he reached the stairs of the platform, he started dancing down them as though he were in a 1950s musical. The couple did not bicker for the rest of the ride.

The Peripatetic Christmas Tree

As I entered the station at 175th St last night, I heard a strange melody rising from its depths. Upon arriving on the platform, I saw an apparently homeless man, bundled in many layers, and pushing a shopping cart down the platform. His cart contained the usual assortment of black garbage bags and tattered blankets, but on top, perched somewhat precariously, was a miniature but fully decorated Christmas tree. The man was slurring his way through several somewhat jumbled Christmas carols, his mournful tone in direct contrast to both the joyful lyrics and the twinkling tree. When the train finally arrived, the man did not get on, but continued to pace the platform, singing to his little tree.