MUST SEE NEW YORK

I wouldn’t say that I’m a complicated man. For the most part, I can keep myself pretty well entertained. Movies, plays, concerts, foxy boxing, are all fine, but unnecessary. I much rather sit at home and twiddle my thumb (which, coincidently, is my code name for masturbating). However, being human, I do have certain weaknesses - things that not only entertain me to no end, but that I actively seek out during my daily routine. These weaknesses include: hobos, reruns of My Two Dads, and of course, the elderly. Luckily for me, watching the aforementioned are usually free, but if there was a charge I would gladly pay it.

I’m currently staying in New York City, which shall henceforth be known as the Must-See-TV capital of hobo and the elderly watching. Usually it’s the simple things, like an 80 year old man holding up the cross-town bus as he pays his fare in pennies and nickels. Most people mutter something under their breath and return to reading their newspaper. Not me though. I move closer and root for him to drop his change purse or lose count so he’ll have to start over again. The other day at Duane Reid, I stood behind a woman who must have been in her mid 60’s. She had bleach blond hair, bright red lipstick all over her face, and a pink tank top that said “trash” across the chest. While I watched her argue with the cashier over the price of butterfly shaped hair clips, I thought to myself “turn this into a play, and I’d buy front row seats.”

And hobos I find equally amusing. I will gladly pay a dollar to any homeless person willing to entertain me with a song and dance – the more off-tune or the less appendages, the better. But this afternoon I observed what could only be described as the “Who Shot J.R episode” of hobo and elderly watching. Returning home from an exhausting day of job hunting, I came back to my friend’s apartment to find the maid doing her dirty business. To get out of her hair, I grabbed a book and went down to the park at the end of the street. In route, a bird with terrific aim had what I would term “explosive diarrhea” all over my head. So, after returning to the maid-filled apartment once again, rinsing my hair and getting a hat, I was back on my way.

Now, having had a bird shit on my head, I wasn’t in the best of moods. All I wanted to do was lay down and watch some public access television, but I couldn’t. So there I sat, begrudgingly reading the a book on a bench.

I was getting into my book when I heard a commotion. Sitting across from me were three odd companions all together on a bench. One was an elderly woman. Had I not seen some sort of nurse-companion dump her there, I would have assumed she had lived in that very spot for years. People that old don’t move. She was tiny and withered, and covered in liver spots. In stark contrast to her 100 year old face, her hair was amusingly dyed bright red, with lipstick and clothing equally as bright. I’m sure whoever her stylist is gets some sort of sick pleasure dressing her – like kids in a biology class playing with a skeleton model.

Next to her was a fat, bearded hobo. He looked like a laid-off Santa Claus, covered in dirt from head to toe. His white beard had turned yellow, and his white t-shirt had turned brown. He puffed away at a pipe, only furthering the Santa Claus vibe.

Next to him was a well dressed, elderly black man, I’m guessing to be in his mid 60s. By the time I observed the strange trio, elderly black man had jumped out of his seat and grabbed his cane in one swift move. On his face, he wore a look mixed with horror and anger. He looked back at the hobo and yelled, “did you just shit yourself?"

The hobo looked at him, and with an unchanging expression, and started rattling off gibberish I couldn’t understand. I thought perhaps I couldn’t understand him because I was too far away, so I moved closer. However, on closer inspection, it was, in fact, pure gibberish.

“You STINK!” screamed the old guy.
“rahrahruahruahRUHrhahrah,” said the hobo.

Unphased by the nonsensical ramblings, the old guy continued to argue with the hobo, who remained fixed in his seat next to the old woman. “You STINK!” was his mantra. His emphasis on “stink” not only implied that the man smelled bad, but that he should be damned to Hell for it. He repeated it over and over again, as if yelling at him would make the stink go away. The old man didn’t move away from the smell, however, as I would assume the most rational plan of action after encountering a stinky hobo would be. He just stood there, in the very same spot only a foot away, and screamed “You STINK!” over and over again.

A few minutes passed, and the old man was now walking around the bench in circles, repeating loudly “You STINK! You STINK!” The hobo was continuing to spout off his own line of argument, “rahrahurhruahrauhraurahrauahRAHruah.” At this point, the hobo started laughing to himself. The old guy disappeared. And the elderly woman, who up until this point had yet to so much as blink, shot up as rapidly as she could, and started wobbling towards a seat near me. I wasn’t sure if she was actually walking, or simply vibrating along, but I could tell – this was as fast as this thing could go.

“YOU FUCKING SHAT YOURSELF AGAIN YOU CRAZY MOTHER FUCKER!” screamed the disembodied voice of the older gentleman.  The hobo simply laughed. 

The old woman had settled in a seat next to me. The excited look that had sprung across her face had disappeared, and had returned to the blank expression from before. I leaned over and said in a loud voice, “So is it true what they? Does that guy stink?” She didn’t so much as blink.

A few minutes later, and the hobo was up and moving. The old guy had sprung forth as if from no where, and was once again yelling his two word mantra “You STINK!” The fact that the hobo only spoke in word fragments only incensed the old guy more. As I got up to leave, I could still hear him shouting “You STINK! You STINK!”

And for the first time, I thought to myself, “I love New York.”