My Subway Subculture Initiation

So about 2 summers ago, I made the grand pilgrimage all the way from Long Island to Brooklyn to look at an apartment. On my way back home, I get on the Q at Church Ave. I'm only going a few stops, so I just grab onto a pole as the doors close. Distracted by the adorable giggling baby in the stroller to the right of me, I don't even notice this guy on my left until he gets up as if he's about to get off the train, but instead grabs onto the pole I'm leaning against and gets right in my face. He's balding with long hair, missing a tooth, wearing socks with sandals, and seems drunk, even though it's only 11 am.

"I like your tattoos," he says, smiling so wide he's almost leering, and leaning uncomfortably close to me.

"Thanks," I say before really thinking about it, "I have more" — my standard response to such compliments.

Bad move.

"I'd like to see them sometime," he says, stumbling and nearly falling on me with every lurch of the train. I just smile nervously and shift positions, but this doesn't stop my admirer. "Look," he says, conspiratorially, "I'm getting off at DeKalb, but I'd like to get to know you better. Maybe you can give me your phone number?"

Before he even gets the full sentence out, I tell him, "Sorry, I have a boyfriend," which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to flat-out hurt these psychos' feelings. But my white lie doesn't deter Mr. Flatbush Casanova.

"He doesn't have to know," he replies and winks at me.

Oh, gross.

"Sorry," I repeat, grateful that these bug-eye sunglasses are practically eating my face so no one can see the half-amused/half-repulsed look I'm giving this guy right now.

"Do you live together?" he asks.

God damn, he's persistent! "Yeah," I tell him, "yeah, we do," and I'm even starting to picture it now — my imaginary boyfriend and I, curled up on a couch in the apartment I just looked at, eating take-out, doing something cozy and domestic, like a jigsaw puzzle. There's even a cat purring by my feet.

"That's great," he says, still not backing off. "I wish you luck. Tell him he's a lucky guy."

And then — relief of reliefs — it's my stop. "I will," I call over my shoulder as I hastily exit to the platform. I don't even watch the gap.

Man, I think, cracking up by myself in the middle of the empty train station, why can't "normal" guys that I'm attracted to ever be that direct? It would make things so much easier. Because even though I'm more than a little creeped-out, I'm still, strangely, and embarassingly, a little bit flattered.

And I did take that apartment.

[NOTE: Had you been at DimeStories tonight, you could have heard this enchanting story live.]