Train to Nowhere
Running up 13th Street to catch the Market-Frankford to 69th Street today, my phone rang.
“MOM CALLING”.
My heart started to race. Always wanting to adhere to our phone plan, mother only calls me on weekends or after 9 pm unless it’s an absolute emergency.
“Anyu, is everything okay?” I asked.
“Nutting. Just sitting around vith Nagymama. I vanted to ask you, I saw dis veek on 20/20…”
“Listen, Anyu, I can’t talk, I’m trying to catch the subway, can I call you later?”
“I hate dat you take dah public train. Dere are germs everywhere. Don’t touch any handles.”
“Okay…”
“Do you have a man vit you?”
“No, I’m by myself.”
“Vhat?! Someone might try to steal you!”
“Relax, I’m fine. It’s broad daylight out…it’s perfectly safe!” I plunked down in a window seat.
“It would be better if you could just get a man to drive you around.”
“I don’t need a male chaperon everywhere I go-”
“I vish you vould get married already so somevon vould protect you and drive you places. You’re almost 30! Vhy von’t anyvon marry you?”
“I have to go, it’s rude to talk on trains.”
“Call me vhen you get to vhere you are goink so I know you’re safe.”
“Okay.”
I hung up the phone and opened my copy of The Onion, a weekly parody newspaper. I used to read The Onion religiously when work called me to New York, but since moving to Philadelphia, I’ve been Onion-less. Sure, they started releasing online articles and even a TV series a few years ago, but holding a printed copy for the first time in 10 years felt like Christmas.
Well, I didn’t get through a single headline before I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Girl, were you talking to your boyfriend?” I glanced behind me to see a strange guy in a sideways cap grinning at me wildly.
“Yes,” I lied.
He peaked over my shoulder at my hands. “Then how come he doesn’t put a ring in your finger?”
You sound like my mother, I thought, but didn’t say for fear of additional conversation.
“Girl, can you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I’ve been trying to read this paper all day and this is the only chance I have.”
The guy laughed, “Literate girl, I like that,” and hopped into the seat directly next to me. He smelled like a medley of cheap cologne, booze, and cigarettes. I shoved my body as far away from him as I could without smashing into the window.
He glanced at my paper. “Oh, you’re reading the news. I’m not into politics. I just like to party and figure shit out that way.”
I ignore him and continue to read, making sure my belongings were accounted for.
“Anyone ever tell you you look like a model? I noticed you as soon as you walked by. You gotta be like 6 feet tall!”
I ignored him.
“Yeah, big girls, I like that. You know, I do DVDs and shit. I’m in the entertainment industry. You know what that is, right? I can make you a star like I did to my friend.”
He pointed behind him to the guy he was previously sitting next to. He was wearing a zipped up hoodie and looked stoned out of his mind.
“You seen his face before, right? YouTube? Facebook? You know what that is, right? There’s a lot of money to be made on YouTube, and I can make you a big star.”
The stone dude behind us started to shift in his seat.
“My man, why’d you take all my money at Sugar House?* ” (*a Philadelphia-area casino).
The crazy guy next to me took of his cap and started swatting at his friend. “Bitch, there’s alotta money to be made at Sugar House!” He turned his attention back to me. “You coming with me next time girl? To Sugar House? We’re gonna make big money in the entertainment industry.”
“Please, sir, I’m flattered by your interest, but I’m very tired and I’m just trying to read.”
“You’re tired because you probably work too much. Where you work?”
“Leave that poor white girl alone, she doesn’t wanna talk you you,” a girl said from the back. I shot her an appreciative glance.
“Girl, shut your mouth, you’re just jealous that I’m not making you a star. No disrespect of course. You are one FINE African woman.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
“Mmm, mm, she’s a DIVA! Alright! How old are you?”
“19.”
“Well, I’m 32. We should get together.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you know my friend here? He’s a big YouTube star.” He pointed to the stoned guy again, who had since fallen asleep.
“Really?” she asked.
I sat uncomfortably for ten minutes as he shouted across the entire train to win the affection of the 19-year old. Eventually, she started ignoring him, too, which was probably for the best.
“Last stop, 69th Street,” said the automated voice.
I squeezed past the crazy guy and tried to run off the ran.
“Wait, girl!” he called after me, “I was talking to you! Lemme get your picture, I’mona put it on YouTube.”
“No!” I continued to push through the crowd.
“Seriously, I have my cell right here.”
“No, leave me alone!”
A transit worker walked by, making holes in a big pad of paper, as the crazy dude started to snap photos of me. I tried to get the transit worker’s attention. “Sir, please help, this man has been harassing me and that young lady back there.”
The crazy guy started flailing his arms around. “Harassing? I’m just talking to all y’all!” His friend, the stoned guy, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and started pulling wads of gum wrappers from his pocket.
The transit worker didn’t even look up. “Uh, huh, well, if he’s harassing you, you need to talk to the po-lice.”
“Po-lice? Don’t y’all know who I am? I’m a big time record producer, I can make y’all big stars!”
The crowd surged forward and we were off the train.
The 19-year old walked by, “You are NOT no producer of any kind, you’re crazy, hollering and bothering everywhere-”
“You mind your business, you ho.”
“What did you call me?”
People around me were starting to whip out their cellphone cameras, hoping that a fight would break out.
THIS is probably how this guy gets famous on YouTube, I thought. (See also: anyone’s Search-term SEPTA Fight on YouTube)
I wiggled my way out of the crowd and caught my collecting train just in time. I breathed a sign of relief as the train pulled out of the station. I reached down to finally read my copy of The Onion …and it was gone. In the frenzy, I forgot it on the train. I didn’t know what else to do, so I started to scribble notes immediately about the conversation, knowing that I would probably use the insanity as material to amuse any “American Goulash” readers.
I got so into writing that I didn’t bother looking out the window to see where the train was going. It wasn’t until the conductor announced, “13th Street!” that I released that I had somehow jumped back onto Eastbound side of the Market-Frankford – the train that I was trying to escape.
DAMMIT!!
Furious with myself, I got off at the stop I originally came from, repaid for my token and transfer, and got back on. Just as I sat back down in my original seat, my phone rang – it was Anyu again. For a moment, I wondered if I was stuck in an endless cycle like Bill Murray in Groundhog’s Day.
“Stephie…”
“What, mom? I still can’t talk, I’m on the train.”
“Vhat? I taught you’d be at dah office by now.”
“No…uh…” I contemplated my lie for a moment. I didn’t want to tell her about the crazy guy because it would reaffirm her fears of “Dah City”. “It’s okay, just accidentally got on the wrong train so I have to start all over.”
“I knew you vouldn’t be able to ride a train all by yourself! Next time, have a man help you.”
Written completely on the Market-Frankford train with one of those annoying I-phones.
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