The Junkie Queen and her "G" Train Court
Like most men I have a weakness for scarred souls.
And like most good men this weakness does not always take into account the circumstances of the scars.
Some wounds of course are the gruesome evidence, however temporary, of the very worst trick of luck that can occur to our instantly frail flesh, yet these fresh and visibly grisly tokens of our common human frailty hold a grim fascination to even the most casual of observers.
Some wounds have been buried so long ago that even a keen observer may only ever be able to sense their latent effects in a frightened glint of the eyes, a nervous tick of the limbs, a halting catch in the speech that releases just a drop of their deep reservoir of still fresh pain.
Some wounds have been buried so long ago that even a keen observer may only ever be able to sense their latent effects in a frightened glint of the eyes, a nervous tick of the limbs, a halting catch in the speech that releases just a drop of their deep reservoir of still fresh pain.
Other wounds are self-inflicted and because of this absolute fact, these are the very scars that the victim most jealously conceals from an ever suspicious world that, for them, is a treacherous daily obstacle course filled with trap doors dropping straight into their own darkness.
And don't we all have our own little dings and dents, scratches and nicks, inside and out?
On a cloudy August day that was promising rain and squeezing all its fetid humidity into the dank subway tunnel system I hopped on the "G" for what would be my first stop in a hopefully productive schedule of Brooklyn gear and grocery shopping. I was primed for action and open to visual adventure as is my usual subway/shopping outlook. It was late morning, after the rush, and everything was ahead of me on the just about three-quarters full train slowly winding its way toward the City.
At Bergen there was a brief delay as a trio of fixed junkies stumbled through the doors just as they were closing, causing the conductor to loudly and pointedly announce over the PA-
"PLEASE DO NOT HOLD THE DOORS OPEN...AND PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS!"
To which the final straggler/door holder, who resembled a dessicated, dead-eyed Joey Ramone without the leather jacket promptly, loudly and eloquently replied to no one and everyone-
"Yea, go fuck yer Mutha..."
before he lurched through the aisle, banging his fellow passengers with a shoulder-strapped, overstuffed, beat-up soft leather satchel, doubtlessly containing all the vital paraphernalia that his desperate lifestyle required.
before he lurched through the aisle, banging his fellow passengers with a shoulder-strapped, overstuffed, beat-up soft leather satchel, doubtlessly containing all the vital paraphernalia that his desperate lifestyle required.
His apologies upon his missteps, however, were a product of the genuine compassion shared by lifetime straphangers who understand the daily, teeth-gritting indignities they all have to endure together-
"I'm sorry Sir..."
"Excuse me, Ma'm...I'm sorry..."
"I'm so sorry..."
And so on, each one positively dripping with an almost comic amount of concern for his startled but tolerant victims.
His two male companions, both equally drawn and disheveled but without luggage, quickly wormed through the aisle and cadged seats opposite me across the doorway then immediately flipped open the free local newspapers they were both seriously clutching and dove in, blankly studying the giveaway pages with all the remaining conviction they could muster as if on their way to a test or just cramming in all the important facts in the few minutes they could spare before their arrival at their busy Manhattan offices. Their Ramone brother hovered over them in a wobbly state of turmoil, fumbling with his bulging satchel along with an uncooperative umbrella that stubbornly threatened to overwhelm him.
The Three Stooges themselves could not have done it any better.
Then She emerged from behind the shabby wall of their well-rehearsed front and Joey gallantly steered her to the only remaining seat available.
Taken on the hoof, the Stooges were a painfully wasted account of the toll of heroin commitment and as a collection of potential male potency, their ravaged attractions were such that only a Mother could possibly love. They all of them maintained a uniform yet mish-mash street fashion sense that suggested unplanned dumpster diving embellished with occasional laundromat snatches.
But, although she was most definitely a member of their doomed cadre, she stood apart if not obviously above them as she carefully accepted the seat they were holding for her, a seat she surely expected to be waiting for her unhurried arrival no matter the destination.
NEXT TIME- The Queen Holds Court
His two male companions, both equally drawn and disheveled but without luggage, quickly wormed through the aisle and cadged seats opposite me across the doorway then immediately flipped open the free local newspapers they were both seriously clutching and dove in, blankly studying the giveaway pages with all the remaining conviction they could muster as if on their way to a test or just cramming in all the important facts in the few minutes they could spare before their arrival at their busy Manhattan offices. Their Ramone brother hovered over them in a wobbly state of turmoil, fumbling with his bulging satchel along with an uncooperative umbrella that stubbornly threatened to overwhelm him.
The Three Stooges themselves could not have done it any better.
Then She emerged from behind the shabby wall of their well-rehearsed front and Joey gallantly steered her to the only remaining seat available.
Taken on the hoof, the Stooges were a painfully wasted account of the toll of heroin commitment and as a collection of potential male potency, their ravaged attractions were such that only a Mother could possibly love. They all of them maintained a uniform yet mish-mash street fashion sense that suggested unplanned dumpster diving embellished with occasional laundromat snatches.
But, although she was most definitely a member of their doomed cadre, she stood apart if not obviously above them as she carefully accepted the seat they were holding for her, a seat she surely expected to be waiting for her unhurried arrival no matter the destination.
NEXT TIME- The Queen Holds Court
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