Zed Cutsinger

A couple days ago, around midnight, I entered the 8th Avenue stop for the L-Train to head towards Bushwick. I could hear the train sitting, so I ran down the stairs and entered the closest car. It was full in the sense that nearly every seat was full, but not 6-Train-at-8:45a.m.-sardine-full. As I sat between two guys, the blond wearing a fedora in his early-20s to my left asks me, “Man, you got a light?”

I laugh and say, “No.” I look at his hand and he’s holding a rolled up cigarette. I realize that it’s a joint. Him and his friend, tattooed sleeves and hoodie, are laughing. Blond Fedora says, “I’m so fucking high and drunk right now.” The woman across from us leans over and gives him her lighter. He lights up. He sucks on the joint hard, the hot glow climbs towards his fingers. “Can I hit it?” the woman across from us asks. “Ha, yeah, sure.” She hits it. Her boyfriend hits it. The smoke and smell are filling the car. Blond Fedora offers me a hit, I decline. He then asks the whole car, “Does anybody else want to hit this?” Laughter or blank stares but no “Yes”s.

Then a rather large MTA worker walks into the car, right in front of Blond Fedora. MTA worker says, “My man,” in a question tone with a confused look on his face, very disapprovingly. The kind of face that says, “What kind of an idiot are you for smoking a joint on a resting train when there are so many cops everywhere?” Blond Fedora responds with, “What’s up?” The rather large MTA worker leaves the car shaking his head.

“Man, I just swallowed it,” Blond Fedora giggles to me as the train begins its motion Eastward. Blond Fedora repeats himself to the train, “Yo, I just swallowed it!” He receives a round of applause. I’m laughing hard at this point, trying to remember every detail to retell later. With every stop on the way there is no way the new people entering didn’t smell the marijuana stench. Blond Fedora keeps repeating to himself and laughing, “I swallowed it, man.”

The boyfriend across from me sees my shin tattoo and says, “That’s a rad tattoo.” His girlfriend looks as well. As the boyfriend begins to ask me about it, Blond Fedora says, “Oh this?” He pulls up his jeans to reveal a Bad-Brains-lightning-hitting-the-capitol black outline on the side of his right calf. Obviously nobody was talking about that because it was covered by jean, but he continues. “Check this out,” he pulls his jean up past his knee to reveal the word “Sex” in a Script font. “You gotta see my twenty five cent tattoo I got while I was in holding.” He realizes he can’t pull his jean up any higher.

Blond Fedora asks his friend, “Should I undo my pants?” His friend gives him approval. He unbuttons and unzips his jeans and pulls them down to his ankles. On his mid-thigh, in faded black, “25¢” was visible. “Did that cost twenty five cents?” “Yeah.” This portion of the ride makes total sense.

Blond Fedora asks his friend, “Should I take out my nuts?” His friend gives him approval. “You guys gotta see my nuts, they’re huge.” Through the hole in his boxers, he pulls out a nut sack with two large pink testes. He didn’t disappoint with his “large” claim. I’m laughing more now than before. Balls out on a subway train to a pretty full crowd is more wild than the smoked joint. I begin to admire his balls. The pink is like that of a creamy strawberry. The boyfriend across from us starts to ask about the hair on it, when a guy wearing a mosh hat, arm over his girlfriend’s shoulders, yells, “Yo man, put that shit away.”

My laughter continues but comes from a place of uncomfort. “Are my balls bothering you?” “Yeah, sorry I’m,” his voice turns sarcastic and half baked, “Stomping on your mellow.” “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, can you say that again?” Mosh Hat gets up and walks over, “I said to put that shit away!” I get up and sit somewhere else because I know if a fight breaks out, I’ll get hit. The balls eventually go back through the hole, to their natural habitat, between Blond Fedora’s thighs. Mosh Hat’s girlfriend looks unpleased as does everybody watching.

My new neighbor turns to me and says, “New York City, right?” I laugh at the cliche saying. New Neighbor says, “I always bring my own party with me.” He opens unzips his backpack and reveals four huge bottles of vodka. In the most genuine voice I can muster, I say, “That’s cool,” in hopes that the conversation will end. And it does. I look over and the situation seems to have been cooled off. Mosh Hat leaves at the Bedford stop. Yes, this all happened between Eight Avenue and Bedford. The rest of the ride is tame, Blond Fedora antagonizes other passengers as I hope not to get involved.

Most people I’ve told this to ask me, “Is this a true story?” and my answer is always, truthfully, “Yes.” New York City, right?