People say that New Yorkers are rude. Others say that they’re loud. I disagree with both. My initial observation is that New Yorkers have less of an internal monologue. That is to say that what many of us would keep to ourselves, New Yorkers have no problem sharing that information with those around them. Case in point: my first train ride from Brooklyn to the Lower East Side.

I received a call from my friend Trey asking if I’d like to join him for a sojourn into Manhattan today. He told me that the F Train would take me where I needed to go. After looking up the local subway entrances on Google Maps, I set out. I arrive at the train station shortly before it arrives. After climbing aboard I take my seat near the middle of the train car. A pallid Middle Eastern man sits a few seats from me. Sweat adorns his brow as he glances laboriously from passenger to passenger. Let’s call him Chuck. Chuck does not look like he’s having a very good time on the train. At our next stop another passenger boards and makes the mistake of sitting next to my ghostly co-passenger. Let’s call him Steve. Once the train is en-route to its next stop, Chuck mumbles something to Steve who nods with a mixture of mock concern and discomfort. A moment later, Chuck begins to moan with such theatrics that I thought he was joking.

“OH FUCK. NO! UUURRRGHHHHHHH” Chuck could easily be suffering a Stigmata given the way he’s carrying on. At this point there are 5 people besides Chuck and Steve on the train. There’s a couple towards the front who are now also peering over their shoulders with genuine concern (for their own safety) and genuine disgust, two separate passengers towards the back with headphones on, and myself. Chuck is still moaning in the sort of way I imagine someone under hypnosis would moan if the hypnotist suddenly informed them that they had eaten spoiled meat: “uuugh…nuuuurgh…” It is a rhythmic sort of moaning that I’m still unsure is sincere or not. It is soon proven to be authentic.

Without warning, Chuck gurgles one last pathetic groan before he slumps over in his seat, sweat gushing from his brow. He is paler than ever. Steve, of course, is freaked the fuck out. What did Chuck murmur to him before he died? Perhaps we’ll never know. Steve jumps out of his seat and makes a bee line for the train conductor who appears shortly thereafter to assess the scene. All five of us are staring at catatonic Chuck while the bus driver checks him over. By “checks him over,” what I mean is that the bus driver doesn’t do shit. He takes one look at him and concludes that Chuck is unresponsive. He makes no effort to touch him or do the whole “Annie! Annie! Are you OK?!” routine. He radios ahead that he’s got an unresponsive passenger. Dispatch tells him to proceed to the next stop where there will be an officer waiting.

We arrive at the next stop as the train conductor announces over the station’s loudspeaker that the train will be delayed while we all deal with Chuck. At this very moment, Chuck suddenly revives. He glances around at each of our slack jaws in surprise. He has no idea why we’re all gawking at him. What’s wrong with a bit of a cat nap, y’know? Mr. Conductor reappears, still on his radio:

“…scratch that. He’s up and alert now. Hey! What the hell’s going on?

“Nothing? I’m fine.”

“You were unconscious…”

“Oh?”

The police officer appears in the doorway to inquire as to what the situation is. The conductor brings him up to speed.

“Yo buddy, you don’ look so good. You feelin’ alright?”

My new favorite police officer in the world looks like he’s been on steroids since he was 14. He’s got some ridiculous tribal tattoo peeking out from under his short-sleeved uniform, crawling towards his hand.

“Yea, I’m fine! I’m just not feeling well that’s all. I had blood drawn today.”

“Oh? You sure bout that?” Tattoo’d Justice is suspicious. This guy might be a junky. He could be mentally unstable and the voices are telling him to kill us all. It’s anyone’s ballgame at this point.

Chuck rolls his sleeve up to reveal a very believable medical bandage. He most surely did have blood drawn today. After he satisfies the curiosity of everyone involved, Mr. Conductor politely informs the station that the train is once again operational. A few more poor souls filter into our car, completely unaware of the events that had just transpired. The couple towards the front of the car who witnessed the whole ordeal are still stealing glances back at Chuck who begins to notice them.

“Did you say I stink!?” Chuck is accusing the couple of declaring him foul. They quickly nod in disagreement and face forward. Whether their stop is next or not, they exit the train hurriedly.

For the remainder of the trip, Chuck asks anyone who glances his way, “I stink?!” It’s not really a question and not quite a statement. Most of the passengers, having not witnessed him slumped in his seat minutes before shrug their shoulders in neutrality. Some also nod in disagreement. At this point Chuck is addressing everyone and no one.

“Man, that was weird. I passed the fuck out! Those vampires… they’re suck you dry if you aren’t careful, you know!? I… I think I shit myself. When I was out, I mean. I think I shit myself. That’s why I’ve been asking if I stink. Man! Whooo!”

And that’s what I’m talking about. I think New York is a special place in which its residents never learn that it is not prudent to inform those in proximity that they might have shit themselves. You don’t really need to go around asking people if you smell like shit either, it’s usually pretty obvious if people think you do. About a minute rolls by and everyone on the car is in stunned silence. No one really knows how to deal with the force of nature that is Chuck, so we all just keep quiet. Finally, we approach our next stop and Chuck stands to exit the train. The car doors are right next to my seat.

As they open, Chuck declares emphatically, “Yup. Shit myself.” And exits the train. A powerful fecal aroma wafts over us in his wake. I endure it until the next stop which is thankfully mine.

Holy Shit.