DOES NOT COMPUTE
DOES NOT COMPUTE
I’m waiting for the L at 6th ave. My favorite crazy soul singer is there too, singing “My Girl.” I pull out my headphones and look around. No one is enjoying it except a cute blonde girl on the opposite side. We make eyes a few times and smile, since we are the only ones enjoying the show.
The train arrives and I move over to make sure I’m in the same car as her in case I muster up the courage to say “hey.” I look around, no girl. I walk over to where she would be if she got in the car. No girl. At the last second, she bolts into the car and lands right next to me. She says “he’s going to be at 42nd street tomorrow, I’m going to see him.”
We strike up a conversation. I tell her about the time that soul singer asked me about pie. This turns into the weather, her being from Brazil, then somehow, cohesively, the Flaming Lips.
She gets off at Bedford before I could get her number. I put my headphones back in. My iPhone is on shuffle. The song is Somebody to Love by Queen.
I walk in the rain laughing at the absurdity of the last 9 minutes. The song ends and I walk into White Castle. I eat shit. I put a quarter in the gumball machine. I get a red gumball. I hate red. The song changes to Don’t Stop Me Now also by Queen. The irony is not lost on me and I empower myself to get another gumball which will be a better flavor. It’s red, again.
I walk home. I type this on my iPhone. I debate posting this. I eat my gumballs. Then I realize at least one person will laugh at my misfortune and that will make them happy. To them, my strike outs are amusement. To me, striking out means I stepped up to plate and sometimes that’s a victory of it’s own.
Small victories for small men, the Drew Kaufman story.