Tattooed upon the floor of the silver N-train, infinities spewed out and wandering minds traversed the dirt particles of a mucky footprint left by the right boot of an unknown man.
Grime populated nostrils as folk sat in the corner for reduced chances of weird neighbors and shiny, more manageable mornings. A brunette stumbled aboard in charming disarray. All-star Dream Girl — if they didn’t involve neon goblins desecrating childhood bedrooms with mannequin nightmares. She fluttered a line of suitors a pocket moment: Whew, just made it. Only the moment stretched like serendipitous gum shared between aisle-crossed lovers. They watched each other without watching each other in a game of peek-a-boo flirting. She adjusted her grip on the steel rail/boner prop and left at 49th St.
Images of playful squeezes under café tables and muggy evenings counting freckles fell back to winter.
A John dressed in this season’s must-have potato sack tripped in tandem with the train. Skidding across the car like a ghetto Rockette, his leper-lite head took solace in the fact that Doe’s crotch made a soft target. Upon standing, the John spat warped threats.
“I giblets! Getefuggoff! I cutthroat cowboy! I fak cookies, I slice ya fuckstick right off!”
“You’re a dick,” Doe said, slouching in the orange plastic seat. A little girl overheard.
“Mommy, that man said a bad word. He said dick,” precious said. Mommy leaned over and whispered syrupy assurance that Doe was indeed a bad man. A sullen young woman examined her nails as if acting bored was an art form, and she was the new Picasso.
Gators dressed as businessmen dressed as bums soured the tunnels with canned laughter. Subterranean messages pissed in the dirt would be harvested into folklore by smart suits and be analyzed by bubblegum brains six feet under in apartments five miles high.
A hobo fucked a beauty queen in front of the lobotomy crowd. Tourists watched the hobo grind his organ against her ass while his blood-haired face stuttered between the shoulders of meditation and masturbation before exploding silkworm fireworks across her ass cheeks.
Now the carriage contained a new smell: Spunky Comrade. The other smells welcomed him with a song by The Beer Breath Trio. The smells became fast friends. Armpit Aroma had a little place in Montauk, where he vacationed with his missus, Cheesefoot Serenade. Doe liked the crowd and squeezed out a date to join the party, Little Sassy Miss Brown.
“Hi, I’m a totalitarian stranger and I’m going to preach sentiments you need not know.”
The man sitting next to him had a face containing greasy eyes and pterodactyl smile. “Pretend I’m a popular song and sing along awhile. Words are power and power is jazz.” The man joined hands and pantomimed a bird flying.
The man flew out the window.
Birdman scooped up a Businessman-Bum-Gator in his talons and carried him to a secret nest. At first they argued about nesting materials, as all young couples do. Fast-forward a year and familiarity bred contempt, which in turn gave birth to an undying complacency who grew up to be a star of the subway circuit, often backed by the No Name Street Choir.
The man across the way was either sleeping like the dead or likely dead. His open mouth parodied the alien autopsy video and twitching leg evoked memories of chasing rabbits. You could tell by the way his docile eyes rocked and rolled under lids he was a dog-tired dogsbody. Damn shame the beast’s collar and owner was absent, his coat widows peaking inside lit places.
Hairy Debby hopped on. I know you’re not thinking: Did she drink sixteen shots or only fifteen? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this horniness I don’t care. But seeing as this is the swampiest gulch in the world, and could blow your wad, you got to ask dick a question: Do I? Well, she has Day-Glo hi-lo dildos, hip-hug jeans, lip-drug creams, pre-soaked wet dreams, pull-out gimp, signed numbered pimp, and R for Repressed limp.
People stared through the graffiti-scratched windows: blurred lying faces and bright blue lights.