Gesundheit

Cont'd from previous post ...

For the scores upon scores of friends (read Purple Petra) who read this, some of y'all may have heard this story before. It is something that Mark and I have told after every reference to New York over the past year, which is quite a few times considering I started at least two out of three sentences with "When I was on my internship in New York last semester ..." to try to impress girls at school. This story admittedly will lose a lot of its effect because Mark can't contribute with his tactful reenactment. And because we can't hand the baton to each other using subtle verbal cues such as "You'd never guess what happened next!" and "And then when I thought it couldn't get worse" etc.

Mark was in town visiting me during my stint as a NY intern and we were on our way back from a thumpin' (or bumpin' or jumpin', whatever the cool way to say it is) Mormon party at a yet-to-be flipped 5-story townhouse. For those of you who don't know, Mormon parties are much like regular parties, only people act drunk as opposed to getting drunk. And instead of having sex we wink at each other. Anyways, we are on our way back and we find ourselves in the tunnel between Port Authority Bus Terminal and the Times Square stop. Those familiar with the matter say that we were right next to the vendors selling "You're going to hell, sinners!" signs in 45 different languages. Again, a somewhat late night (by Mormon standards, of course) and a moderate walk ahead of us.

As we were walking, a man who appeared to be looking for something better in life (i.e. a shower, shoes with soles on them, perhaps a home, more vodka) was walking towards us. He stopped, looked contemplative. Now, this was not going to be the first time that I had been asked for money, and, being the philanthropist that I was (not am), I often obliged (not oblige). I began to feel through my pockets for change or scraps of food when he deliberately brought a finger to one side of his nose, wound up, and blew out a (this is where Mark would come in handy, not only for visual support but also for adjectiving) snot rocket. But all in slow motion.

I spare many details here because they are both nauseating and insufficient to describe the scene, but I give you a few: grey, viscous, 5' 7", remarkable. It was perhaps my first true MTA moments, the kind you can't forget. The evangelical signs, the transcient suddenly realizing he left his kerchief in his other jacket, the woman shielding her son and gasping "Oh come on!", all came together and made a story worth telling. Not like the story, "You know ... that one kid who rides a bike with baskets."

Next time I'll take a picture.