Subway Religion

I have blue ink on my hands. I’m not sure from what. And it won’t come off. It looks like either I robbed a bank or pulled a fire alarm. Don’t laugh- either is possible. I have a selective memory and wouldn’t put anything past me…

So I’m on the subway today coming home. The New York City subway is full of tons of characters. You get singing hobos, fighting hobos, crazy hobos, “I lost my kids to a fire at the Chuck E Cheese” hobos, the sombrero guys, random hipsters and yes, the religious fanatics.

Religion is great. Really. I don’t care who or what you worship or believe in as long as you’re a good person (read: you don’t irritate me). Subway preachers are something else though. They come in all shapes and sizes but are almost always annoying. Some just talk quickly, will hand you a pamphlet if you want, and move on to the next subway car. The pamphlets bug me though- from whomever is trying to give me one. I hate the pamphlet guys that barricade themselves in front of the subway entrance so you have no choice but to encounter them. If I want one, I will take it. But if you get your hand close to my face, chest, or 5-foot diameter circle around me I’ll rip your arm off and beat you with it. And don’t get me started about the petition-signing guys who want to lecture you about human rights/gay rights/child rights/environmental rights/ etc. I just yell that I’m a Republican and they schreech and run away in sheer terror.

So today there was a preacher lady. She wasn’t quick. She wasn’t really giving a message. And she wasn’t moving on. She was standing in the car, from 42nd street to 179th St-Jamaica (an hour’s ride) just yapping and yapping. She was loud, annoying and despite turning up my mp3 player to the highest level I could (playing Metallica mind you) still hear her incessant lectures. I was tempted to just yell out “oh for the love of God, come on!” but that would probably just propagate her message.

Like I said, go ahead and preach your religion-------- to whomever wants to hear it. Don’t do it around me. Or if you do, make sure I can’t hear you. Or if I can, make sure I have a sharp object to poke you with.

So between Roosevelt Island and Queens we get stuck in the tunnel. Nothing helps one’s peace of mind then sitting in a pitch-black tube 80 feet under ground (and the East River) with no exits and having this large religious lady start spouting out verses from Revelations. I swear it was terrifying. I was this close to just getting on my knees and repenting or sacrificing a chicken or something.

Oh and then she started handing out cards with her Twitter address on it. I don’t understand this Twitter stuff. It’s a blog right? Oh wait no, because you’re supposed to update it in however so many characters at a time, all day, all night. I think if you really want to know what I’m doing, come along with me. You can ride on my back, or follow on a leash if that kinda thing floats your boat. Or a choke chain if you’re a freaky-deak. Hell if I care. Or how about pick up the phone and call me! I won’t answer, because frankly, I don’t even care what I’m doing, so chances are, I don’t care what you’re doing either.

So anyway, we get out of the tunnel (at which she starts quoting the book of Exodus…. Coincidence?) and are almost home. So now it’s the grand finale of her message of how repentance and penitence and sentence and attendance and bioluminescence and sixpence and whatthehellever will save me. I just need to find God. Know what saved me? Getting home without a felony tacked onto my record.

And by the way, I found God already, thanks. And it wasn’t on the subway. It was on the bus.