The Marker of Books

You may not be aware that there is a mysterious woman who roams the cars of The One train, making it her mission to assure that no book that enters ever leaves un-bookmarked. My first and only encounter with this woman, whose face I cannot even recall, took place a few weeks ago when I was sitting and reading a textbook on my way downtown.

This notorious character stealthily crept up to me, laid the bookmark in the crease of my book, said, "Here, have this for your book," and slid out the car door faster than I could say "Thank you."

How do you know if you have had an encounter with the Marker of Books, and not just any old bookmarker? Well, the bookmarks left by the Marker of Books are not just any bookmarks. They tend to be decorated with ribbons (in my case, a purple one) and are printed with a year-long calendar (pretty impressive for a small bookmark). Though the woman's race is unidentified, she evidently gets her bookmarks from the Italian American Causus (stamped on the back of mine), which in turn buys them orientaltrading.com (printed on the back). She is also known to contribute to world happiness by recommending babysitters through her bookmarking. If on your bookmark is hand-written the name and number of an expert babysitter, that means you were lucky enough to be visited by the Marker of Books.

Thanks to her, if I ever need a babysitter, I will most certainly call Lebiram.

Good Night, Fabulous Straight People

The most entertaining place to be in the wee hours of the morning on a weekend in Manhattan is The One train, and this tale, my friends, is proof.

Picture it: two young men board the train, one fabulous looking and the other fabulously drunk. The latter young man poses the question to his fellow passengers: "Are there ANY good-looking guys in this train car?"

All the women began scanning the scene. The men looked down at their hands and shook their heads. In truth, the situation was dire. There weren't any good-looking guys in sight. Playing the game I sometimes play with myself on the subway, called "Who in this car would I totally do if the world were ending right now", would have resulted in utter failure. That is, unless you counted the questioner's companion, who, as previously mentioned, was quite fabulous looking. I decided against voicing this opinion out loud.

No one volunteered an answer, so the drunken guy motioned toward a girl sitting on his left, who had until now been chattering away to her friend, and asked again: "Seriously, now. Are there ANY hot guys on this train? Do you see any?"

The girl looked around, raised her eyebrows, and shook her head, confirming Drunky's observation. "See that?? NO hot guys at all. I mean, I just want to take someone home. Not him"--he gestured toward his companion-- "I take him home every day." At this point, the fabulous-looking guy glared at Drunky and said something to him in a whisper.

"Come on, Miguel!" Drunky protested. "The other night you got drunk and acted stupid, and now I'm not allowed to be drunk and act stupid? Chill out. It's just that there are NO hot guys in here now. It's a sad situation, I'm serious. I have another question too. Does anybody in here like penis?? I know I like penis. I know somebody else in here must like penis."

Suddenly almost everyone in the train car became very interested in the pattern of the veins on their hands. "I mean, I like penis. I don't understand why nobody else in here is willing to admit that they like penis." At this point Miguel seemed somewhere in between laughing, trying to shut up his boyfriend using brain waves, and trying to disappear.

This scene somehow dragged on for several more minutes, until the young men arrived at their stop. Sadly, no one had been willing to take a stand for penis, but Drunky was not bitter, only merry. "Good night, fabulous straight people!" he cried as his boyfriend dragged him off the train. He watched the train pull away from outside the car, looking through the window and waving at us, his new-found straight people.

The Case of the Errant Tag

After a party one night, I was riding then train home with two friends. Completely unaware of the perilous situation we were in, we conversed in a lively manner about college days, boys, various goings on of the night, and the like, as any group of young ladies might do on a late-night One train. But upon arriving at 116th St, my friends dismounted, leaving me all by my lonesome.

Well, not literally, of course; there were a few other people on the train. I suddenly noticed I was being stared at by the woman across from me, who had a horrified expression on her face. Once she saw that she had my attention, she blurted out, "Were you with those two ALL NIGHT?"

I wasn't sure quite how to respond. Were my friends really that irritating? "Um, yes," I said. "Why?"

"That woman's tag was totally hanging out."

Again, I was at an utter loss for an answer. "Oh," I said somberly. "I didn't even notice."

"Well, it was. It was hanging all the way out."

At that moment I realized not only that I was being subtly accused of an utterly inconsequential crime, but also that this woman was completely insane.

But, as soon as I had stepped off the train, after bursting into hysterical laughter, I called my friend to let her know that her tag was hanging out. I believe she tucked it in. Another small miracle on The One train.