THIS MUST BE WHAT HELL IS LIKE.

With a title like that, I must be writing about my new job, right? Nope. While I have nothing particularly nice to say about temping for MoMA, this entry is dedicated to the subway ride home two days ago. There are some really interesting characters sharing the mass transit system, and by “interesting characters,” I mean, “horrible dregs of humanity.”

First there was the homeless woman begging for money. Now, being homeless does not alone make someone a dreg of humanity. I understand that sh*t happens, that much of life is beyond our individual control. For example, a small number of cartels control the production and distribution of crack cocaine, and as a result, the street price of crack cocaine tends to fluctuate. If only a strong regulating body existed to keep the price of crack cocaine from fluctuating, perhaps homeless people would have to beg less in order to raise the necessary currency to purchase crack cocaine. Ideally, they’d raise enough crack cocaine money so they wouldn’t have to beg me. Not that the homeless woman on the train was begging money for crack cocaine. I didn’t really ask her.

However, I did recognize her from the many hundreds of times during the past few years that she went around the trains collecting for the U.H.O. You know the U.H.O., don’t you? Of course you do! It’s the “United Homeless Organization.” They provide food, toiletries, and valuable information to the homeless. Supposedly, anyway. I mean, they claim to have a soup kitchen and everything, but their web site provides no information and the links don’t really go anywhere. Also, panhandling on the subways, regardless of who you claim to represent, is supposed to be a crime. That’s why you see the Salvation Army Santas outside the subway stations, not on the actual subways.

So homeless woman was no longer collecting for the U.H.O., but openly stating that any money you give would go directly to her. I guess she finally decided to cut out the middleman.

Anyway, I’m on the Q-train heading home to Sheepshead Bay, and like every weekday afternoon, it’s packed. I’m standing there next to the door, and I hear music from somewhere in the car. At first I think it’s someone’s discman, but clearly, it’s a radio. I look around—so do a lot of curious people around me—but we can’t figure out where it’s coming from. Then comes the singing.

I should put singing in quotations, like “singing,” because I think it’s debatable just what that futile attempt at melody was. Instead of “singing,” perhaps a more accurate term would be “torture.” It was boiler rumbling belched up through phlegm-laden pipes. Imagine the sounds that an asthmatic goose who had its genitals caught in a mousetrap would make. But it was the sheer, admittedly ballsy attempt of whoever was master of that horrible voice to sing along with the music from the radio that I found surprisingly funny.

Uhhh Ehhh Aa-en ma HAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!
Uh ga lalala hum mah Whoawhoawhoawhoawhoa…

For the fifteen-to-twenty torturous minutes it takes for the Q-local train to lumber from Dekalb Avenue to Church, I had to endure “Muh safahlalamuh uh fuh huhuhuhmuh huh. Hah AAAHGUHRUHUHDUHLA!” I finally figured out where it was coming from. Black guy, probably in his late-forties or fifties. Malcolm X glasses and green sweater, face like a raisin. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Phil X! Don’t write unflattering descriptions of mentally-challenged people with speech impediments.” You think he sang like that because of a speech impediment? Wrong! Right after his quote-unquote singing, he started muttering, and I could make out everything he said just fine. Unfortunately, it was mostly angry nonsense, mostly about how his sister got hit in the head with a “12 oz bottle of Pepsi” when she was little. Then she grew up and got cancer.

“Now, everybody knows she got cancer ‘cuz of that 12 oz bottle of Pepsi that she got hit with when she was little. But tell that to all them m*therf*ckin doctors, all them m*therf*ckin lawyers. She got hit in the head with a 12 oz bottle of Pepsi! How you know none of that had nothin to do with her getting cancer? I know none of you care, you got yer fancy pants jobs. You a lawyer, schoolteacher, pizza delivery guy.”

It just went on-and-on, a lot of it directed at the Pepsi-Cola company. I have no idea what anti-Pepsi rants have to do with singing really badly on the subway, unless the guy just wanted us to feel his pain. If that was his objective, mission accomplished, pal, because I was ready to smash my head bloody against the window.

The guy finally got off the train at Church Avenue. His last words were, “Don’t believe everything you read!” (Especially about a 12 oz bottle of Pepsi, would be my guess.) To his credit, I expected the bad-singing-on-the-train episode to inevitably lead to some kind of extortion. You know, a handout. But anti-Pepsi man did no such thing. He got off at his stop, leaving everyone in the train relieved. I give you credit, Mr. Anti-Pepsi Man. That day, you challenged all of us not to believe our immediate perceptions, and you backed that up by not being a beggar when everyone expected it of you. Sir, you can scream and b*tch on my train anytime. Especially since I am a Coca-cola man.