Wednesday, June 19, 2002

 

I spend a lot of time underground in the tube on a train between San Francisco and Berkeley these days. The silent humming lulls me into a very serene place. In the morning, business folks in suits and ties shift uncomfortably in their seats, or (if its during the rush at 830 or the rush at 530) stand up straight and narrow holding tightly to a bar above our heads to keep from falling into the persons around them. Rarely do people talk with each other. The train also gives me the time to do character studies and to hone in on what makes us tick... or at least it gives me insight into everyday people doing their natural things. Here's a little anecdote about a man named Finnegan:

Red Faced Finnegan
A man said to me, "Do something great once a day,
and if you do it before noon, yer the man." Welp, I
saw a ole fella hock a loogie that spanned Harrison
today. On the way home from the coffee shop this
morning, I passed a business-ey looking ole chap with
a derby on his head and a red tie flipp-flopping in
the wind as he forged inta-it. His newspaper was held
above him like it was about to rain, but the sun was
out. Queer fellow, if you asked me. I decided to
follow him around to see if my suspicions were right.
Hell, I aint got nuthin to do, and the sun woke me
especially early this morning. I was still a bit tired
and with the sun riseing and the warm coffee I felt a
little as if I were in a dream already. It would take
a while for me to get my bearings, and if this guy
noticed me, or if I happened to get bored at all, I
could bounce back to my pad with no woe. He shimmie
shammied all over the sidewalk between people and
around the telephone poles, weaving through the going
to work crowds in suits and the doing the work crowds
in their carhart pants, covered in paint, or with
garbage. He popped into a coffee shop to get himself a
nice tall Latte, just like mine I imagined.

Eventually, this guy - who I'd affectionately named
Finnegan, on account of his red face, I dunno, maybe
it was too early to tell, but he looked Irish to me,
with his red hair, and face that shone in the sun like
he'd been in it too long the day before red - turns
down Harrison, prolly to get downtown with a suit like
he had on, Versace or some shit.

There's a stop sign on Harrison, y'see? Nobody stops
for long at it. The cars are too busy in the morning
to give a shit, and the people who commute by bus end
up crossing the street together, forming a mob so big
the cars have no choice but to yield. Welp, me and
Red- Faced Finnegan got to Harrison. A crowd around
the curb formed when we did. It always happens just
like I said and at the right moment, when there
weren't no cars in the way, we all bolted across the
street as a group. Red-faced Finnegan in the front,
with his coffee in the air as if he were leading a
battalion toward its nemeses. His hair blew in the
wind and drew his tie outta his suitjacket and into my
face. Man, it was windy.

Once, across the street, the crowd filtered out a bit.
Some folks went south to Daly City, and some folks
went Downtown to their offices and their jobs. All of
us had coffee in our hands. Everyone left abruptly and
onto the hustle and bustle of their Tuesday lives.
Everyone, that is, except me and Finnegan.

Red-faced Finnegan stopped to fix himself and to look
out over the Harrison divide as he had just crossed
it, his hair a tousle, and his suit a bit wrinkled
from a fervent and sizable crowd. And as he peered
across the street which had been overrun with Camaros
and Thunderbirds , Vanagons and Jettas zooming quickly
through the looming red STOP sign. Leaning over and
clutching his lower stomach (I thought he was about to
vomit, but who knew?, He drew in a hocking noise,
probably clearing his entire phlegmey throat back into
his head, it sounded like. He started with a sniffle,
that was rather like the beginning of a sneeze but
backwards into his nasal cavity, as that's where ya
gotta draw that shit could you want to get a good
loogie going. The sniffle became a guttural vibrato,
high up in his head and also somewheres near the back
of his throat, and I knew what he was up to by that
point.

"CCSGSCHH -- CCHH -- CCCCCHHHHH -
CCCHHHSSCCSSCHHCCCCHHHH!" he went, and "CChhh."

He waited a second, maybe two, and "Tha-woop."

He shot a loogie across Harrison that could'a been
some sort of pirhouette onstage during Swan Lake. I am
not kiddin' ya, this loogie was as big as a baby's
head, and flew... no, it soared to the other side of
the street. Finnegan lifted that spit on the
occasional upward stream of the wind that was blowing
so hard in the first place and sent it like a shooting
star into the daytime filth of the innercity. I dunno
if he cared or not, but Finnegan missed every single
shiney car on its way to work, too. I dont think
anyone but me saw any of this of course, but
somewheres along the way I felt like I'd witnessed
that great thing that someone needs to do every day to
be a great man. And shit, he'd done it before noon.

I was only awakening still, and my coffee had gone
cold. Red-faced Finnegan had a job to go to, and I may
have freaked him out by watching him force a snot-ball
ouuta his dirthole. So, We parted without never saying
a word to each other.

posted by Hog 10:42 AM