Note to the fellow on the 3 train
Dear Sir,
It's very possible you may not read this. Hell, not many people can anyway. However, from outside my window Ain't No Stopping Us Now is pumping through someone's speakers, and I am compelled to write. Because frankly - and I hope your name isn't Frank - I am concerned. And it looked like nothing was stopping you.
It was a crisp summer morning, and I had just stepped onto the 3 train from a short venture to brave the entitled, somewhat arrogant crowds at an upper west side Fairway for some groceries. In my bag were the usual suspects - deli meat, bread, pita chips, and a 6-pack of $11 beer. The lunch of champions. I positioned myself on the platform to board one the cars with the fewest passengers, as I usually do. It's a tactic I am forever learning, and maybe even getting better at, especially during weekdays. As fate would have it, I ended up boarding the very car I met you. Well, let's be frank again; we didn't meet. Or maybe we did. I made eye contact with you, does that count? We totally didn't hug or anything. I mean, maybe I would have, if you asked nicely. You seemed like a decent guy for a hug. A manly hug. You were sitting on one of the yellow seats. Or maybe it was an orange seat. Either way, they're cheery colors. Nobody should feel glum sitting on seats the colors of sunsets and daffodils. Some of the other cars have blue seats, and that's okay. But not this car. It's fucking sunshine and rainbows up in here. I chose to stand, holding onto a pole. This is another thing I've been getting better at. I no longer have to clutch on for dear life whenever I am standing on a train. I can almost totally ride it like a skateboard now. Gnarly. Do they still say that?
Alright, so we're on the train. It's all moving and everything. You're sitting, I'm surfing. I mean skating. I notice you have a bag that goes clankety-clank as you set it on the floor. Cool, man. Beer? Old glass bottles of Pepsi? Who knows. You jam your tattooed arm into the bag and pull out a tall can of Coors. Nice. I'm more of a bottle guy, but cans are cool, too. And thank God you're not into that light beer shit. Drink like a man. Coors Light has taken over way too much - we need a Coors revival. Take charge! Lead the pack, dude! Upon opening the can, I saw you slink a clear straw inside. I have always been intrigued by this. I mean, soda advertisers have always shoved straws into their cans. But...this is beer. Do we drink beer in straws? I can't say I haven't entertained the idea. But, it's just a straw. And that's cool. Suck away, good sir.
Anyway, there you are drinking a Coors tall boy through a straw. Looked like you were coming back from some sort of job, given your marked up work boots and paint-stained pants. If so, even more cool. Drink up - it's five o'clock somewhere, right? You started talking to yourself. Out loud. I couldn't make out what you were saying, but who cares? It's motherfucking booze time.
But then I saw the wrinkled face.
Then, the squinting eyes.
Then came the waterfalls.
Uh, wait. Sir? Dude? Coors Revival Pioneer? What's going on? I thought you had this under control? Are you in control? Because it doesn't look like you're in control. It looks like you're totally fucking losing it. Are you a lightweight? Because two sips of beer isn't going to let my guard down. What the hell. What is going on? Don't lose me. Stay strong. Why are you crying? Why are you crying and talking to yourself and drinking beer in a can out of a straw on a subway train? So many questions. My opinion of you has changed in a matter of seconds. I thought you were strong. Manly. Had your shit under control. I thought we were eye-contact buddies. I thought I could buy you a round sometime. I don't know anymore, man. I don't think you're the same cool cat I met. Look, this potential bromance isn't going to work, as I draw the line at losing your shit on a train. I will remember you fondly, and wish you safe journeys in life, once I get off this rickety damn ride.
And for chrissakes,try and get it together.
Dear Sir,
It's very possible you may not read this. Hell, not many people can anyway. However, from outside my window Ain't No Stopping Us Now is pumping through someone's speakers, and I am compelled to write. Because frankly - and I hope your name isn't Frank - I am concerned. And it looked like nothing was stopping you.
It was a crisp summer morning, and I had just stepped onto the 3 train from a short venture to brave the entitled, somewhat arrogant crowds at an upper west side Fairway for some groceries. In my bag were the usual suspects - deli meat, bread, pita chips, and a 6-pack of $11 beer. The lunch of champions. I positioned myself on the platform to board one the cars with the fewest passengers, as I usually do. It's a tactic I am forever learning, and maybe even getting better at, especially during weekdays. As fate would have it, I ended up boarding the very car I met you. Well, let's be frank again; we didn't meet. Or maybe we did. I made eye contact with you, does that count? We totally didn't hug or anything. I mean, maybe I would have, if you asked nicely. You seemed like a decent guy for a hug. A manly hug. You were sitting on one of the yellow seats. Or maybe it was an orange seat. Either way, they're cheery colors. Nobody should feel glum sitting on seats the colors of sunsets and daffodils. Some of the other cars have blue seats, and that's okay. But not this car. It's fucking sunshine and rainbows up in here. I chose to stand, holding onto a pole. This is another thing I've been getting better at. I no longer have to clutch on for dear life whenever I am standing on a train. I can almost totally ride it like a skateboard now. Gnarly. Do they still say that?
Alright, so we're on the train. It's all moving and everything. You're sitting, I'm surfing. I mean skating. I notice you have a bag that goes clankety-clank as you set it on the floor. Cool, man. Beer? Old glass bottles of Pepsi? Who knows. You jam your tattooed arm into the bag and pull out a tall can of Coors. Nice. I'm more of a bottle guy, but cans are cool, too. And thank God you're not into that light beer shit. Drink like a man. Coors Light has taken over way too much - we need a Coors revival. Take charge! Lead the pack, dude! Upon opening the can, I saw you slink a clear straw inside. I have always been intrigued by this. I mean, soda advertisers have always shoved straws into their cans. But...this is beer. Do we drink beer in straws? I can't say I haven't entertained the idea. But, it's just a straw. And that's cool. Suck away, good sir.
Anyway, there you are drinking a Coors tall boy through a straw. Looked like you were coming back from some sort of job, given your marked up work boots and paint-stained pants. If so, even more cool. Drink up - it's five o'clock somewhere, right? You started talking to yourself. Out loud. I couldn't make out what you were saying, but who cares? It's motherfucking booze time.
But then I saw the wrinkled face.
Then, the squinting eyes.
Then came the waterfalls.
Uh, wait. Sir? Dude? Coors Revival Pioneer? What's going on? I thought you had this under control? Are you in control? Because it doesn't look like you're in control. It looks like you're totally fucking losing it. Are you a lightweight? Because two sips of beer isn't going to let my guard down. What the hell. What is going on? Don't lose me. Stay strong. Why are you crying? Why are you crying and talking to yourself and drinking beer in a can out of a straw on a subway train? So many questions. My opinion of you has changed in a matter of seconds. I thought you were strong. Manly. Had your shit under control. I thought we were eye-contact buddies. I thought I could buy you a round sometime. I don't know anymore, man. I don't think you're the same cool cat I met. Look, this potential bromance isn't going to work, as I draw the line at losing your shit on a train. I will remember you fondly, and wish you safe journeys in life, once I get off this rickety damn ride.
And for chrissakes,try and get it together.