freakin' at the freakers' ball

goddamn but i've got to remember not to take certain trains after 9 pm or even 8 on sunday nights if i want some quiet time. that is, the 2 or 3 which i took tonight, boarding around 10 and wowzers, what a constellation of crazies or maybe they were just drunk or stoned. or both.

a pair, a couple across from me, couldn't stop giggling. he was a boi or maybe just a boy without a top row of teeth, the naked gum exposed everytime he laughed, which was in fact was nonstop. they got off at 14th and i was glad; they noticed i was fascinated by them and a little bit feared they'd start talking nonstop to me or making fun nonstop or maybe just getting sick on me.

there was a big woman with her hair pulled back also, yelling down the train to her son, maybe 11 years old, one of them anyway, in spanish, while he was getting beat up by his sister. she hit him hard and he cowered on the floor next to one of those poles you hold onto. then he was forced to sit next to his mother and she slapped him a few times, then put her hand on his scalp and shook his head and yelled at him more but it was in spanish and i don't know what she said, and he wailed and cried and his cheeks looked dusty where the tears had dropped and i felt so horrible to have seen it all. the humiliation in front of all those witnesses. another woman siting next to them, unrelated, laughed at it.

and then a woman sat down next to me, with lots of pockets—those kinds of multi pocketed cargo pants and a vest like photographers wear, lots of pockets and mesh, and she had big silver rings, fat rings—on each finger, thumbs included, and some thick brass bracelets and she was singing but not just to herself, gesturing and mimicking the trumpet movement, snapping in time as if the combo were backing her up, singing out loud. as if in a gig. as if she were cassandra wilson. was that the gig?

what a long long day. i feel like i could sleep for a week.