The Commentator

Issue date: 8/31/05 Section: Arts & Culture

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The MTA transit is a Barnum and Bailey extravaganza of all the weird and wondrous that New York has to offer. The grunge green walls, unidentifiable black gummy substances scattered throughout, and burning whiffs of urine smelt on those late night jaunts all combine to make the underground a marvelous tickler of the senses. I have witnessed a man with no legs walking down the stairs on his hands. He shooed people away, saying, "I don't need no help." A seven-foot tall transvestite with an aquamarine Mohawk passed out pamphlets about the impending apocalypse. And generally, if you ride the 1-9 on weeknights, from seven to eight, a short, gray-haired fellow named Joe will board your car, sing a Ray Charles number, follow it with Nelly's "It's Gettin' Hot in Here," provide a small strip routine, and then end the night with ten lewd Michael Jackson jokes. The grimy details of the Manhattan underground background a painful story.

I recently took the A train to 59th street to meet some friends at Columbus Circle. From there we planned to walk to Azuri's Café' - the best schwarma in New York City and perhaps the world. We would eat ourselves full, then end the evening with Jeff Goldblum starring in The Pillowman. At 23rd street, a fellow Jew boarded the train and sat down opposite me. I naturally studied him, trying to deduce his background and religiosity. He wore a white knitted Kipah, tight tee shirt, and jeans. A short buzz of facial hair grizzled over his face. He seemed smart and aware - from what I could tell by looking - and smiled at me. I smiled back.

At 34th street, the car door swished open and the announcement prompted everyone to board the train. A few people got on, a few people got off. And as the doors were sliding shut, I saw a large flash of white fly up the stairs, dart for the door, and get a single hand in between the crack. I immediately stood up from my seat, but before I could help, the hand curved and ripped open the door with incredible strength and a bellowing roar. The man jumped in the car and yelled, "I am Tyrone, and all that is powerful!" Almost everyone in the car burst into laughter, or at least smirked. The Jewish man sitting across from me grinned. Then Tyrone started to sing and dance. Boy, how that kid could dance. He did a midair flip that left my jaw hanging, and received claps from the others. "Thank you, thank you, I'm just black and beautiful and loving life, thank you!" he said.

Continued...

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