“Yeah, I’m crazy. I’m the crazy fuckin’ Puerto Rican.”
As he tosses yet another bill out of the bus window. Four so far; one in half, something about meeting you half way. One was for Bloomberg “and his office. Here’s a dollar… … Cockroach…”
He finally settles into a seat, and pulls a wad from his sock, after removing the first forcibly from his left back pocket. He sorts them, holding on to the bigger bills, pulling the ones and disposing of them. One by one. Money comes and money goes; he was making it go a bit faster. A bill stuck in the window frame, trapped – waiting for someone to realize its value. Another, tossed to the floor, quickly snatched up by the chubby asian woman.
He settles into a comfortable position, elbow resting on the back on the seat in front of him, arm extended, contentedly flipping off the front half of the bus.
He studies another bill, tilted downwards, holding it to the flame of his imaginary lighter. He watches it burn. Rip it up, thrown it down.
“All the money in the whole world doesn’t get you anything.”
The floor is littered with little bits of green paper.
This is a true story, perhaps a bit embellished. A late night experience I had, coming home on the m15. I opted for the longer trip on the bus vs. the shorter subway ride in order to get some school reading out of the way, but then this guy came and sat down in front of me. I was compelled to take notes, I couldn’t help it. He was so adsorbed in his own story, he could have turned his head a few degrees and bumped into the notebook in which I was writing about him, but he never did. 40 minutes later, when I got off the bus, he was still sitting there, talking to himself, and to his money.
-Kathryn
