How romantic, I’m standing in the crowed front section of a subway car that reeks of piss and stale beer. I find my way to the back, where the florescent lighting has all gone bad, and the lights flicker intermediately before finally sparking out. I am seated quietly in the back of the dark subway car heading towards my office in Manhattan.
I unwittingly found myself catching bits and pieces of a conversation between two teenaged boys dressed in all black with patches of punk rock
bands lining there tapered pants, their feet resting on skateboards rolling back and forth with the cars motions. A man who looked to be in his mid forties was talking with them. Something about acid, ecstasy, too much shroomage?
Welcome to America, home of the free living sons and daughters of wealthy stoke brokers, who live incredibly well off home lives, but like to wear tight pants and bitch about politics and how the man tries to bring down the underdog. These kids haven’t met me. These children of tyrants snorting lines of blow off the pocket mirror they stole from moms vanity, they like to use there dads prescriptions to pop pill after pill looking for a quick release from there sturdy families, there well endowed lifestyles. Fakes. They proceed to openly discuss these topics with strange old men in dark subway cars. Strange old men who wish to share a relationship with these boys, why? Mid life crisis? Pedophilia? Who knows, maybe they just cant pull it together enough to hold an honest, mature relationship with the people there own age. Welcome to America.
Three stops and half a dozen acid filled stories later the kids step off the subway, so does Mr.
Pedo-fuckin-phelia. I’m alone.
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