âI could have gotten it all for ten.â
* By this time, Iâd earned a little money from my writing, but I put it all in the bank and never touched it. So I was still cheap.
* Daniel and I never bought presents for each other. We shared our video games, magazines, and clothes, so it was pointless to give each other stuff. Basically, anything I bought for myself was a present for him.
BACK CAR
I tâs 10:30 P.M ., just before Christmas, and Iâm exactly where I should beâsitting in a nearly empty subway car. My bass guitar is nestled between my legs, and my Magic cards are spread out on my lap. Iâm sorting the cards; it keeps my hands and mind occupied. Iâm in the back car. Unless Iâm going to school, I ride in the back carâbecause Iâm guaranteed a seat and because thatâs where the weirdos are.
Tonight there are two. One is a husky man, sitting across from me, drinking from a bottle in a bag. He has a bald head, huge sideburns, and big square sunglasses. Standing next to him, wobbling as he clings to a strap, is a lankier guy. Heâs wearing a yellow headband with a big red jewel pinned to it. Theyâre talking about Jimi Hendrix. *
âMan, you have to understand,â Husky says reverently, pointing, âwhen Jimi was around, the electric guitar was just invented! Nobody knew what it was; nobody knew how to play itââ
âYeah, yeah, I know,â Lanky cuts in.
Husky continues, âBut Jimi was a natural, see?No schooling, nothinâ. He was a natural. The sounds he madeânobody can make them anymore.â
âThatâs the one thing I wishâthat I coulda seen Jimi play,â Lanky says, swinging sideways as the train takes a curve.
âYou know how Jimi played?â Husky takes a swig from his bag to accentuate the question.
âHow?â
Husky leans forward, almost whispering, âHe played his guitar like he was doinâ his mama.â
I laugh. Oedipus on the number two train. I laugh so hard, my Magic cards fall from my lap and I have to pick them one by one off the brown patterned floor. The two men glare at me.
âYouâve got a guitar right there,â Husky says, gesturing at my bass. âHow are you gonna laugh? You ever heard Jimi play?â
âNo.â My voice cracks.
âWell, if you were doinâ your mama, how would you play?â
âIâm not sure,â I mumble.
âWell, there,â Lanky reasons, âyouâre not Jimi.â
I canât argue with that. The train pulls into Fourteenth Street; Husky rises and shuffles through the doors.
âMerry Christmas,â he tells Lanky. He turns to me. âYeah, and you, too.â
âThanks,â I say, looking up from my cards.
Lanky seems lost without his Husky. He sits down, mumbles some more about Jimi, and hawks loogies as the tunnel lights flash by. We both have a real phlegm problem, and thereâs no one else in the car to stop us, so for a few stops thereâs this dialogue of
âHaaauckâptooey.â
Lanky gets off at Wall Street, and stereotypical passengers get on: a college-age double date, a bearded guy trying to look smart, a frog-eyed woman eyeing him lustily. This is the back car, thoughâsomething has to happen.
At Clark Street, a foul stench enters the train, followed by a homeless man. His rotted black jacket lies in tatters on his chest. Dark stains dot his brown corduroys. Heâs wearing decent-looking New Balance shoes but no socks, which gives me a dead-on view of his hairy ankles. But his most striking feature is his scent. The college girls pull the tops of their shirts over their noses and giggle.
âGo back to sleep, nosy!â he yells at them. They burst out laughing.
âHey, man,â says one of the college guys, standing up. âYouâre stinking up this car. How about you go to another one?â The girls think heâs so