“Here Is New York”
by James Parsons

September 10, 2002 --

I went to see Janeane Garafolo host/headline a night of standup comics at a small bar called the Luna Lounge. A really great "only in NY" type of event. Along with Janeane (I call her Janeane, oh sure) there were about 9 other acts, many of whom I recognized from tv specials or bit parts in movies or whatever, finishing up with Rich Hall and then Dave Chappelle, who are both actual celebrity psuedo-star type folks. It's not a question of being star struck, just that it was cool to see established artists of any stripe in a tiny little hole in the wall trying out material and just kinda Working. OK, I do have a major crush for Janeane, but I bailed entirely on saying Hi to her when she was within six inches of me... another reason I will never be a famous showbiz type -- no schmooze gene. Ya know, she is much shorter than my collar bone?

Anyway, it was a really fun time, just hanging out there on my own and feeling like I was making good use of time spent on earth for a night. Then, there was the subway ride, and sometimes the city just rises up to greet you, ya know?

I find a seat, half empty car, always an empty space between neighbors. The closest person to me is a woman who got on just behind me and is sitting to my right. White, tight, ribbed t-shirt with some "original genuine whatever brand" logo on it. Light blue jeans, low ridin' style, the shirt and the pants are giving her bellybutton plenty of room. I find myself doing a classic doubletake. Is... are... uh, yeah, her fly is completely unzipped and spread open. Somehow or another she isn't exposing herself, but let's just say I know she waxes. And she's... “manipulating” herself. ?!?!? No, wait, she's got a tattoo down there, just above her... hips... I am NOT staring, NOT STARING I am shouting to myself in my head, NOTNOTNOT STARING... OK, I am looking right at her, but I have lifted my gaze to about shoulder level. She is totally slouched in her seat with her pants open rubbing her skin... W.T.F. is going on here?... then it hits me. The tattoo is new, and it itches, probably even hurts like the dickens with the denim rubbing on it (no sign of soft, cottony underwear, and believe me, you'd be able to tell). So, there may be a legitimate medical reason for this behavior. And that means she's not necessarily a total freak. I can say something here. I'm a worldly guy and am not in the least bit fazed by sexy strangers with their pants off on the subway. Right??

"Fresh ink?" I think of saying. Does that sound like I'm down with the scene? I am Not gonna say that -- what am I, nuts? First of all, it'll come out like a squeak, because I don't think I've swallowed for 6 minutes. And if I turn back towards her I'm gonna say whatever I say to her Vagina, because who am I kidding, nobody could Not look at what she's doing. I glance around the car, and amazingly it actually seems like Many people are Not Looking at her. Corner of my eye, what's she up to? She has her purse out and is getting something from it. OK, that looks like a tube of creme of some kind, probably a good idea... huhwhahuh???? here????... and then the Weirdest thought... oh, look she's a smoker, that's such a turn off... the woman is going to apply soothing ointment to her Area on a subway car and I’m contemplating whether her personal habits are attractive???....

Wait for it, wait for it...

I've got my notebook out cuz I was gonna write some nonsense or brainstorm on the ride, but now I'm burying my focus onto the page just so that I don't look anywhere else. At the next stop she's moved a spot away to get the window seat, and I peek up to survey the new status of... stuff... and there's now someone in between me and her. A tiny tiny little Indian guy, youngish like Ghandi when he lived in South Africa. He's sat down for the express purpose of talking to this woman. Now That takes some sort of chemical makeup in the brain. The eavesdropping begins in earnest, and I'm jotting down everything I can hear over the rumble of the tracks.

Sounds like he's suggesting applying a napkin with some creme on it, and no pressure that might irritate the tattoo. Sensible. He doesn't have tattoos himself; he works with them somehow? Can't be a tattoo artist, because he'd definitely be inked. What, no, he just knows a lot of tattooed people? Huh? his accent and his vocab are limiting the conversation. OK, he is definitely asking her... what? She got the tattoo four days ago, and had sex that night. Too soon, he says, the skin needs time to heal. Is it infected she asks -- probably not, just a minor skin reaction. Why does he know this, again? Oh, he takes tattoos Off. He works in a hospital. What is this, Doctors Without Borders free Monday night clinic on the F-Train?

Now he's explaining something in great detail. Mustard oil is all I can make out. Must be a home remedy. Does he mix this concoction up at the hospital? What is he holding in his hand? He just turned partly toward me. A Poland Spring water bottle. Filled with beer. OK, a drunk, Indian midget medic and a middle-aged, Jersey party girl are treating her Self between Houston St. and Borough Hall, Brooklyn. It occurs to me that nothing looks more like a urine sample then a flat beer in a clear plastic bottle. Heck, maybe it IS a urine sample, if this guy really works in a hospital. Do I trust That claim for even a second, though? And if I do believe it, do I trust a New York City hospital now? Time to look at something else again...

Distractions, distractions, ANYthing else to look at... It doesn't take two seconds...

Just entering the car is a long, tall black man -- 6'6" with a mop-top afro and elongated fingers. Red overalls over a blue work shirt and red Chuck Taylors. A green army vest with the sideways pockets up and down each lapel. "Gold" encrusted, fat-framed pimp glasses and a 40oz (no charade for this fellow). Tops it all off with a costume shop black felt Pirate Hat complete with applique skull and crossbones.

I hate to say things like this, but... Where else? I love this town.