Me vs. The Homeless, Part 8

I pity them as much as the next dude, I really do. Curled up in a subway station on a piece of cardboard, hoarding bizarre items, begging with the passersby for loose change or a scrap of food, watching while their bodies detiorate. It must be unbearable. So yes, I pity them. But when they get in my way, so help me, William Blake, my wrath doth descend like a plague of locusts.

There's a lady at the 23rd street station who barks drunken commands everyone including me, demanding, "give me that cigarette! I know you got it. Gimme." And "play more Bob Dylan. I like Bob Dylan. Bob. Dylan. Dylan. Bob. Bob Dylan." While I'm not impressed by her drinking habit, I can handle the Dylan stuff...if you read this blog enough, you know that I'm obsessed with the dood. But what I can't handle is that she insists on singing along from her perch on the benches nearby, and then demands more Dylan while I'm still playing one of his songs. It don't work like that, lady. It works like this: I'm going to punch you in the face.

It hasn't come to that yet. But man, is it close. She definitely deters people from giving me money...Her presence alone is unsettling, and she's got powerful psychological abilities, too. I think they see her slobbering all over herself and begin to think that I'm not much different. We're both hanging out in a subway station for inordinate amounts of time, hoping for money, right? I'd like to think that the difference is I'm providing some kinda service, while also not drinking liquor out of a plastic bag with a crazy straw.

Last night I snuck out to get in a quick session at 23rd, and was about to go through the turnstiles when I saw the matted hair and lumpy face of my foe, squished up against the armrest of a bench, probably dreaming about a pack of cigarettes singing "Blowin' in the Wind" in harmony. Like a lost woodsman stumbling upon a slumbering bear, I crept quietly out of the uptown side of the station, crossed the street, and descended into the downtown half. "She'll never be able to get to me over here," I snickered.

Well, it's true that she couldn't physically reach me, but her voice could. As soon as I started playing, she was roused from her drunken stupor, and began hollering unintelligible comments at me from across the tracks. Not the worst thing in the world, as there was pretty much nobody around (it was after midnight), so I didn't exactly lose any money. But I also didn't make any.

Whatever. Her days are probably numbered with or without my inevitably unrealized malice. Oh, and lady? For the record, Bob Dylan covered "Mr. Bojangles" live many times, so shaddup already.