I’m being stalked.
It happens on the subways. Almost every time I step on the “Q” in Brooklyn, after a stop or two of peace and quiet…
They are there. Walking on to the train, and now that they’ve locked the doors between subway cars, I am trapped.
No. There is no escape.
Three of them. They always travel in packs.
Their instruments of torture strapped to them. Some times bedecked in unique clothing, at others looking normal, until you see the large, leather straps across their body.
Subway Mariachis have found me again.
They’ve started moving deeper into Manhattan as of late. Traditionally in Manhattan, it’s all panhandlers with an agenda- (usually that everyone in the car will someday be in their situation, so pay to keep karma from being a bitch) or the occasional breakdancer/s. (When a crew of 4 to 5 young man try to start the big mass clapping while the train is vaulting down the tunnel at obscene speeds, contributions are really less for the dancers and more for medical bills- theirs’ and of any spectators’ hit in the face by a white Nike at the end of a breakdancer’s red nylon panted leg.)
I’m at least tolerant of busking taking place off the subway cars. You can move away from a busker while at a station, but when trapped on subway car, interaction with a passing mariachi/crazy preacher/close-quarters break dancer is sure to lead to tragedy, tears, and contusions.
Don’t they get that I’m trying to catch up on the Lword, for crying out loud?
Where is Johnny Depp, Willem Dafoe in a bad-make up job, or Joaquim de Almeida when you need them?
Confusing Medical Science Since 1971 