Street Fighters

Recently I was walking to a subway station in a very public, well lit, heavily populated area, when I spotted two men apparently fighting each other, very poorly. They would have each other at arm's length, almost in a stranglehold, and then sort of halfheartedly punch at each other, almost like a catfight. People were passing them by, barely giving them a glance.

I stopped, not wanting to succumb to bystander apathy, and seriously pondered calling the police. I mean, wtf, mates? But I couldn't decide just from what little I observed whether they were actually fighting, just poorly, or play-fighting, and I have so been there. I wouldn't want to get the cops called on me every time I mock-spar with a friend.

So I watched for a moment, trying to decide. They stopped for a second, and spoke to each other in calm tones in a language I didn't recognize, probably something subcontinental. They let each other catch his breath, then started again. I decided that if it WERE an actual fight, either no one would be injured and it would be fine, or it would escalate and someone else would have to handle it, because I was going home.

A little perturbed, I made my way past the fight and towards the subway when I heard a woman shriek on the other side of the street. I turned, my adrenaline pumping, only to realize that she was drunk off her behind and only hiding from her friend, who had poked her.

What on earth is with these people?

The Chanting Man, II

Several weeks after I encountered the chanting man, I was headed home on the last train with a friend of mine who shall be known as Polly. Polly and I rarely see each other, even though at the time we lived barely a block apart, so we were fairly engrossed in talking to one another. Most of the way home, I notice a faint chanting sound. I look around, and there behind me is the chanting man himself! I didn't mention him to Polly at the time, but I really wanted to see where he went.

He got off the train first, and we followed him up the stairs. He walked out of the station in the same direction we were going. By the time we got to the doors, however, he was gone. And there aren't any places on that street he could have gotten inside before we got there.

So I turned to Polly and said, That man, the dark skinned, black haired guy who was singing, did you see him?

And she said, I did! Where'd he go?

So I told her the story of the chanting man, part I. I have never seen him since.

The Chanting Man

One day, back when I had regular work hours and commuted back and forth just slightly off of rush hour, I found myself on a crowded train. Shocking, I'm sure.

As I stood there, facing out into the blackness of the subway tunnel over the heads of some anonymous ants, I heard a chanting voice, dark and deep, coming from behind me. I turned to look. A very out-of-place looking man, red skinned and black haired, was sitting on the other side of the car, eyes closed, singing in no language I recognized (and I recognize a good few). I smiled and went back to my book.

After a few stations, I realized that the chanting hadn't ceased, even when the doors opened, and I hadn't heard the chanting when I got onto the train. I turned again to look, and this time his eyes were open- and he was staring straight at me. His eyes were the same black as his hair. The chant changed slightly as I looked at him, then returned as I managed to look away.

Normally when something odd happens on a train, people will look, acknowledge, and then NOT-look, which isn't the same as ignoring. But no one else seemed to notice the man, no matter how loud he chanted. Even the people sitting right next to him didn't seem to notice. But I noticed, and he was looking at me.

This could have been creepy... maybe it should have been. But all I felt the entire time was a sense of content and purposefulness. As if this were something beneficial and directed at me.

Eventually, we got to my stop, and I exited the train. I noticed that the chanting stopped, turned slightly, and saw that the man had come off the train here, as well. Aha, I thought, maybe if I slow down, he will pass me and I can see where he goes.

But when I turned again a few steps later, he had vanished. There was no one remotely like him on the entire platform.

The Jew Card

Recently, my friend Junebug's purse was stolen. While this stinks in many, many ways, the worst part is the irreplaceable object: her Jew card.

A Jew card, you ask? What on earth is that? I didn't know either, so I asked.

When Junebug was in middle school, she was working on a project in a group with two other students. She and the other girl were both mostly-secular Jews, and the third was a devout Catholic boy. The girls were fascinated by the concept of a devout anything, and asked him many questions. At one point, it came up that he was, in fact, a "card-carrying" Catholic, and had a card in his wallet identifying him as Catholic in case he died and no one knew that he wanted Catholic rites. This became a subject of much hilarity. Thus, it comes as little surprise to me that on Junebug and her friend's next Hannukah they both received photo identifications, made by the little Catholic boy, declaring their religion and personal information. This treasured card never left Junebug's side.

In fact, it even came in handy once or twice; when Junebug went to visit our friend Chelonia (on whom more later) out in the vastness of the western US, Chelonia's friends decided to take them to a sex shop kind of in the middle of nowhere. Everyone out there has driver's licenses; it only makes sense, what with the lack of public transportation. But Junebug grew up in a place with the subway and a half-decent bus network, and never had learned to drive. Nor, in fact, did she have any form of official photo ID except her passport, and who carries around their passport when they don't have to? So when the sex shop workers asked the group of young college kids for their IDs to make sure they were over 18, Junebug didn't know what to do. Chelonia said, give me your wallet; I will find something. A few moments of searching later, she looked up with a huge grin on her face and said, I found it, but you're not going to like it, and handed the Jew card over to the sex shop employees.

Now, Junebug had already been mortified at holding the group up by not having a regular photo ID, and seeing the sex shop workers marvel at her Jew card (for all they knew, this was a thing carried by all Jews) made her want to just run away, but after a brief time the sex store employees handed it back to her and, being satisfied that her date of birth and picture matched reality, sent the whole group on its way in.

Hell of a thing to lose. I only hope she can get a replacement someday.

Convenience Magic

General consensus has declared that I have begun to develop a series of low-level magic spells, mainly relating to convenience.

My most practiced 'spell' is that of waitstaff summoning. When I need something at a restaurant, all I have to do is look around briefly or put something on my table ajar, and suddenly a waitstaff will appear. Some folks are more resistant to the pull of the summons than others; the other day, Walrus and a few friends and I were out to lunch, and we needed a drink refill. Our waitress was on the other side of the restaurant, talking to someone. After a few minutes of summoning, the MANAGER appeared at our table and eagerly asked if there was anything he could get us, and proceeded to wait our table for the rest of the meal. Walrus' theory is that my summoning had nearly reached critical mass, and the manager came to forestall whatever consequences that might have had.

The other similarly useful conjuration is the ability to find a parking space. It has a decent chance of working within a block of where I want to be, a good chance of working within two, and a very good chance within three. Even on busy days, or nights when only half the street is parkable, or in really crowded places.