NYC Morning

New York, NY - Peter - Friday, June 21st, 2002 : goo

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I used to be a morning person. I thought I still was, but when I woke up this morning, ahead of schedule, I was in such a pleasant mood that it made my past 'morning person' wakings seem inferior. This morning was delicious; a feeling I haven't felt for quite a while. I like mornings like these- they can inspire.

In no rush, I put on my favourite shirt; I had been saving it for tomorrow's meeting, but forget it, I like it and wanted to wear it today. I stuff into my favourite shoes; true, they're a little small, but I like them alot; they're broken in just right. I sauntered off to the train. Sure, the train stinks of stale Burger King and vomit, but there's something nice about riding on one of the new 2 train cars so early; the metal surfaces are still shiny with factory oil, and they reflect the passing kaliedoscope lights in an auora of morning colours.

This morning was mine.

I made my way to the m72 bus, unusually excited to go to work. Perhaps my mood was due to a good song or two, or maybe I just woke up on the right side of the bed. Regardless, I had a smile on my face, a cup of unusually good street-corner coffee in my hand, and felt like striking up a conversation.

Enter Metal Head. This fellow gets on my bus every day at 72nd street and Amsterday Ave. When I'm bored, I play Count Metal Head's Piercings... he has many. We're talking visible double-digits. Sometimes, I play Name that Metal Head Tune; this game should be easy as he savours his audio-death fugues at such a volume that everyone can hear. Unfortunately, I'm not well versed enough in his genre to be entirely proficient, but I'm getting better. Some mornings, I watch as he gels back his dyed-black ponytail, untangling his obscenely large wallet chain. Some mornings, he spits on his finger and uses it to rub scuffs from his oxblood Doc's.

But this morning, something was different. The Basic Black clad rokker that usually slinks on, finishing the last drag from his Benson & Hedges, was a no show. Instead, his shape-shifter zeitgeist entered and sat next to me on the over-crowded bus.

Oxford cloth shirt. Natural brown hair, cropped to a sensible chic. Goatee shaved. Horseshoes, barbells and loops conspicuously removed; fitted with spacers where appropriate. No walkman. Khaki dockers. Pennyloafers. No wallet chain, no spiked collar.

I looked at Metal Head and said, "dude?".

Metal Head replied: "job interview", as a large grin burst over his face.

As any good New Yorker would do, Metal Head dug his walkman out of his bag in order to avoid further conversation, but stopped, muttering in frustration when he realized that he had no disc in it.

With a promise to return my CD later in the week, I turned Metal Head on to what I was listening to.

"Nobody lends no one fuckin shit without a gadam reason. If you're fuckin serious, you've just made my fuckin morning!" smiled Metal Head at me. Ahh, true personalities run deep...

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Jamie: heh. See that? That's you that is.

Jamie: Not sure. Newman and Baddiel i think, perhaps.

Jamie: see that old lady over there with a beard?

elaine: that's you, that is

Peter: the zen of commuting!

elaine: that's you, that is

EvilGentleman: Did you get your CD back?

Peter: yup!

Chris Erb: What CD did you lend him?

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