I’m beginning to feel like Joseph Mitchell, a vintage writer for the New Yorker, not to ever put myself in his esteemed class, but because I too seem to collect characters to write about.
My latest acquaintance is a lady called Molly who rides the number 6 train.
To first see her, she appears perfectly normal, clothes neatly pressed, hair stylishly cut into a bob, washed and combed…no shopping bags in sight except a BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music) satchel resting on the seat beside her.
It starts with her choosing someone at random to address by saying something like, what a nice dress, or have we met? You look familiar. Hi, I’m Molly.
And then the demons take over…those little imps living lavishly inside what brain she has left.
She’ll start screaming telling you you’re all wrong, and how could you and you will certainly be going to hell by way of the crosstown bus. The person who just moments ago preened in a compliment is suddenly scared for their life.
I quietly observe wondering what happened that made her snap living life on a different level than the rest of us. A line anyone of us could cross due to some trauma yet to unfold.
Then the day came when she spoke to me. I just love your hair. It’s so French…so chic…so..and there it was…that surge of insanity simmering in the wings.
As she was all set to hurl hell at me, her eyes rolling back into her head, the doors opened stepping me out, leaving her mute screaming through the train’s window.
Imagine a film you didn’t much care for with the sound turned off as you get up to go get a beer.