southern discomforts

Is he alive?

Shit.

I'm sitting on the train this morning and I'm next to the guy who's nodding out. (That's my shoulder in the black sweater.) There is always a seat next to that guy. And he's the test of whether you are a true New Yorker or not. I've been in the city for 10 years this year and I'm that person. I have no problem sitting next to the nodder -- a seat during rush hour is that important to me. As long as they don't smell and they don't appear to have urine stains or copious amounts of drool, I'm fine. The woman who sat on this guy's right side didn't have issues either. As we both made our way to the seats, we had that conversation that can only be held between two NYC rush hour commuters. No words -- just shoulders, eyebrows and the occasional point using the lips and the chin.

Her: Arching of one eyebrow, lip point/chin gesture in the guy's direction. (Drunk?)

Me: Shoulder shrug, twist of mouth. (No. I think, heroin.)

Her: Double eyebrow arch. (Oh. Good.)

A nodding-out heroin addict is preferable to a passed-out drunk ... less chance of spontaneous vomit.

Anyway, I sit down and as I do I'm thinking about how sad the heroin problem is and how this is so New York -- sitting next to someone completely passed out from drugs while you're just on your way to work. Then I thought ...

Blog! So I took a picture. Ok. More than one picture. (This is another sign I'm a true New Yorker ... no shame.)

Then, as I was grabbing my Sharpie and notebook, I remembered this story about a guy who died on the train and his corpse rode the Q line for six fucking hours before anyone realized he was dead. And I thought, "Oh my God. How awful would that be?"

And I also thought, "But, if he is, what a fantastic story."*


*The guy was not dead. He moved before I got to my stop.