Trains are slow in coming and bus drivers are dicks. Even the train station clerk at 61st Street in some station out of La Guardia (who looks like a cross between the Taxi's Louie De Palma and Grizzly Adams) is a dick. He's probably seen it all, and laughs at me while nodding his head when I buy a weeklong pass. With that, I think he's saying, "Welcome, you loser tourist." But really, he's just being a dick and probably lives an existence of those TV-movie loser cops who go home to a dirty apartment, change to their boxers and slingshot, and turn on the TV while holding a beer.
The train is a half-hour wait. From the train platform, you can see every type of creature crawling out of the cracks to smell the fresh-but-trashy air. There are mole men, supposedly, but I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about dudes of all colors with gold chains, gold teeth, sports jerseys, and ugly girlfriends. They're out and about looking for someone to hate. But the area is filled with life. The corner shop is selling smokes by the second from the little open window where you practically only see a hand making the exchange. Immigrants mix with locals, and everyone chills, thinking that the night is still young.
