eyes down in the jungle

It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon in New York. It's 70° outside which warrants a tank top despite the fact that for fashion reasons, many are wearing scarves and fuzzy boots. Idiots.

I ran some errands today, including a trip downtown to look at some furniture, as well as to my school library to be reminded that I pay thousands of dollars to deal with incompetent hacks. But after all that, I strolled through the midday sun to the subway station.

As proper subway etiquette demands, I rode with my eyes wandering at nothing in particular. They oscillated from the floor to the overhead advertisements, back to the floor, etc. Then somewhere around 33rd St., I saw a passenger get on who was distinctly familiar. I'd seen him the day before on the street. Something about him was just very distinguishing. How funny to see someone you don't know two times on--

"OW-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, OW-WEEEEEEEE OH WIM OH WAY......"

Oh holy hell. The big black woman next to my familiar friend is belting out tunes at the top of her lungs. Her voice is actually quite spectacular, as are the three men (including my buddy) who are backing her up a capella. But, as proper subway etiquette demands, I must NOT under any circumstance look at or even acknowledge the performance going on three feet to my right.

"In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight......."

This need to look away, you see, amuses me. So I looked at the faces of my straphanging companions, and they were each staring at either the floor, their hands, or the overhead advertisements (really, how many times can you read that Cingular ad?). No one was looking at the singers. I mean, as far as subway intrusions go, this one is actually fairly enjoyable. It's not like the typical urine-smelling one-legged homeless men with a makeshift crutch and coffee can who speaks cordially and always reminds us that Jesus loves us before departing to the next car. Such a character passed through once when I had my mother, sister, and aunt with me on the train, and at the onset of "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please," I instructed my family: "Eyes down immediately. Don't look up. Hold your breath." All in all, boisterous subway singers are relatively bearable.

"OW-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, OW-WEEEEEEEE OH WIM OH WAY......"

I stared at the floor as the subway singers passed down the aisle, led by the guy with the paper bag of coins and single bills donated by compassionate passengers, flanked by a guy holding copies of...their CD? I contemplated digging out a dollar for the bag but my wallet was buried in a bag inside my bag underneath a pile of books. So I just stared at the floor as they passed, wearing the look of shame attributed to those who have money but choose not to share it, which is only slightly assuaged by the look of those who are in grad school and don't have any to share if they want to.

Maybe I'll see that dude on the street again next week. And I can say "Hey, I heard you sing on the 6 train on Sunday. You guys were great. I had no cash at the time but I wanted to donate. Actually, I have no cash now. I'm a grad student, see. I'm pretty broke. But, oh...do you take TransitCheks?"