Yellow Bellied Crackers

In New York, you don't know when a crazy person's diatribe is directed at you until you do. I took the subway home from work with Greenberg last week, and all was fine on the 5. But when we transferred to the 6, a little bit o' hell broke loose. There was a casually dressed black guy shouting about crackers and pistols and pussies at someone, and I assumed it wasn't us. You tune things out as part of your survival kit here. But he got closer. And finally he was in Greenberg's face shouting more about those things:

"Crackers. Crackers got it made! Crackers all over the internet, and I still get the pussy. My pistols loaded, yo. Crackers. CRACKERS!"

I thought to myself, "Wish this cracker had it made."

Greenberg stared straight ahead, motionless like a beetle or a turtle or one of those animals that plays dead to avoid being stabbed with a shank on the subway. I muttered at Greenberg's and my reflection in the window across aisle, "I think he's talking to you."

Greenberg did look especially crackery that day with his stupid briefcase and terrible canary yellow short sleeved golf shirt, but other than looking like an asshole, he didn't do anything to my knowledge to deserve such a tirade. So there we sat, Greenberg still as stone--and I wondering how the hell I'd defend myself, as Greenberg clearly wasn't going to be helping me out any--while Mr. Angry went ballistic, walking and talking, occasionally accentuating his prose with in-your-face gestures.

"WHY DON'T YOU SUCK MY DICK?" he asked Greenberg.

More babbling about crackers, the internet, pussy, and pistols. Suddenly we arrived at 23rd Street, which was one stop from where we got on, and Greenberg's stop. Mr. Angry made his way to the doors. Greenberg definitely wasn't going to get off here, I thought to myself.

The doors opened, and Mr. Angry shouted, "HAVE A NICE DAY!" at Greenberg. And right before the doors closed behind him, got in another, "SUCK MY DICK!"

The doors closed. Everyone on the train breathed an inaudible but palpable sigh of relief.

"That was my stop!" Greenberg exclaimed.

"I know," I reassured him.

"What was that guy's problem?"

"I think he wanted you to suck his dick."

The train laughed. Greenberg added, "Nothing to worry about, everyone--just an old roommate of mine."

More laughter. A woman sitting across from us chimed in, "Did you stick him with the rent?"

I got off with Greenberg at the next stop (a stop earlier than my own) and walked with him a few avenues to settle him down. He was a big target with that stupid yellow golf shirt on, afterall. Crackers.