blackout. justice verbatim

today, on the N train, heading home I got up from my seat at powell street to let an old man take a load off. i had my headphones on but for some strange reason this obnoxious girl starts talking to me even though i can't hear a word.  i pull off my ipod ear shredders and say with a loud tinge of impatience, "huh?" she starts over. 

"that's really nice of you to give your seat up."

"oh thanks," and I started to place my earphone back in, but she kept yapping.

"what do you do?"

i hate this question. the main reason is that I'm not exactly proud of my station in life and i'm not spending my days doing what I love to do.  the second reason is what the fuck is it to her, what i do? what knowledge, what level of knowing, to what degree and simply for what reason does her knowing what i do improve or degrade or balance the three stops on muni conversation that is unfolding in front of her. is she going to go home to her roommates and say, "i met this really nice guy on the train today.  he got up from his seat for an old man.  he's a[n];

dental assistant

aesthetician 

social worker

game show host

lifeguard

cop

rabbi

third base coach

railroad worker

hobo

rodeo clown

film maker

bartender

architect

drug dealer...

what have you.  does this small meaningless conversation about what a stranger does to make ends meet have some refined vision of quality, levity and gravity? its like talking about the weather when its clearly shitty outside. not like, "its raining cats and dogs!" which is declarative, descriptive and obvious, but trying to maintain a long insightful exchange with a complete stranger about the temporal differences between two o'clock yesterday and today.  if she'd had a cup of something in her hand I would've liked to snatch it from her and pour it over her head then kick her squarely in the ass two stops too early.  the entire train would've erupted into a raucous, riotous applause and laughter. the old man would've been so thrilled by this spectacle he'd feel compelled to give me back my seat and two other girls who know better than to start a conversation would begin to rub my shoulders and feed me grapes off the vine. 

so how did I reply?

"I'm a producer."

"cool," she panted like a dull automaton. "what do you produce?"

"oh, sandwiches."

i could've lied. I should've lied. I wanted to tell her I was a mortician.  I told a girl this once at a party and she was totally taken in by it. she wanted my number and I had to fabricate the existence of a girlfriend to get her off my tail. i feel like the girlfriend bit was a bigger lie. 

i could've told her that I was health inspector, an investment banker, a nude model, a cobbler, a goal tender, an accountant, a chimney sweep, a linguist, a plumber, a chef, a mustache trimmer, a back alley jazz trumpeter, a catman [married to the cat lady], an arms dealer, a dread lock collector, a concierge, an illusionist, a cigar roller, a writer, a band leader, a lawyer, a greaser, a crook, a grifter, a musician.  i hate this question. its as if all we are is what we do. how bout this; i'm just trying to live and go fuck yourself for asking.

I didn't though. I told her the awful truth of my shady, futile existence.  

she started talking about herself and the non-profit she works ad nauseum. I smiled, nodded and drifted at once, fantasizing about a life with no trips on the smelly, humid cauldron that is the N line, stinking to high heaven of sweltering radishes and turnips, softening herbs and ginger type roots, all pink bags in hand on our way to chinatown west. all these images are floating, the olfactory-ultra sensory detailing meandering around me until finally she says bye. 

thanks for the pointless infinity of verbatim and all the love now lost. nice work.