Whose Cider You On, Anyway?

There's a job I'd like to have. Driving a subway. I'd get to see all sorts of crazy underground catacombs that I'd keep telling myself I'd one day explore and settle in, but ultimately never do more than shine a flashlight beam upon. I'd get to take out aggression on slow, unwitting commuters who are unfortunate enough to end up between the doors of my tyranny. And I'd probably get to see a lot of cool buskers if I was that driver in the middle, who probably shouldn't be called a driver since I don't think you can do that from the center car on a subway train. But far be it from me to say what the responsibilities of this position are. I just know it would be fun. Just looking around to make sure everyone's inside the Cool Train. And checking out the tunesy wares of someone such as myself. The other self. I mean...'cos I'm just imagining myself driving the train. But that imagined self would be watching my real self do selfy things.

Long story short, there actually are one or two drivers (or whatever) that I see on occasion who nod and bop along with my music, and even give me a nice little wave from time to time. One guy gave me the peace sign tonight (I'll assume it wasn't that "most-likely-an-urban-legend-but-in-Australia-this-means-up-yours" sign). I think that's right cool....these guys don't have to do anything at all in regards to me, and I'm glad they seem to be enjoying themselves and can give me encouragement through signage.

On the other hand, you don't gotta look all peeved at me. Some lady tonight gave me a look like I'd suddenly produced all the works of Chaucer by tugging them from my rectum and then had to sit down and explain to her who Chaucer was (I'm not trying to be mean, but you weren't there. Trust me. She has no clue who Chaucer is). Why the look? Sure, I'm not necessarily ushering people onto the train or cleaning up the station or otherwise benefiting your cause. But am I hindering it? Am I a musical remora attached to the soft underbelly of your infrastructure? Am I merely a penny-pinching planarian parasite perusing the plains of your putrid, petty, pancreatic plaza? I think not. So don't give me a look like you just sucked on an egg that was filled with lemon juice. Because if that happened, you should be giving that look to your grocer.

In other news, I've decided that when I grow up, I want to be like the cool guy tonight who hopped off the train, skipped over to my guitar case (his fine cashmere coat rippling behind him), to drop a stack of ones in, without even hearing me play. Definitely want to be like that. Some day. Right after I settle in to my new apartment in that subway catacomb.