This time in NYC, I decided to take the airtrain from JFK to the Howard Beach station and then the A train into the city, saving me a boatload of money. At the Howard Beach station, I sat to wait next to a woman in her fifties, dressed in shiny, tight purple pants, her ratty hair barely contained under a colorful scarf. She wore sunglasses in a subway station at six in the morning. Her hand stretched out in front of her holding a cobalt blue iphone which played rap.
The music had a strong beat and the words kept repeating, and I began singing along softly.
"Is YOU singin?" Alarm in her voice.
"I guess I am," I said.
She elbowed me hard and shrieked. "You is a crazy woman!" Hard laughter. "A crazeee woman!
Guy on the other side of me leaned forward and asked, "Is that Jay-Z?"
"Yeah, I love him," wild woman said.
The A train arrived. We stood. "You have yourself a good Sunday, you crazy woman," The purple pants lady laughed and walked down to get on a car that was not the same as my car. Who wants to sit next to a crazy woman?
See, my narrow third eye, which looks down on this scene, sees me as a gray haired, prim looking, old woman, sitting next to what I would consider the truly crazy woman.
This is why I love NYC so much. You never know who is the crazy woman. And nobody cares.