Yellow Mama E zine

‘Scuse Me, This Is My Stop

Kenneth James Crist

          New York City is not my favorite place, but sometimes I go there. Once in a while on business, sometimes to visit a friend. I’m from the Great Plains, where we drive our cars everywhere. Not very practical in NYC, though, so like everyone else, I ride the subway. When in Rome . . . and all that.
           Just the other day, I was on the train and we were passing under the river. I hate that part of the ride into the city, just because I can’t keep myself from thinking about all that water above us. So, I’m nervous and a bit jumpy anyway, when, from the front of the car, I hear screams. Some dipshit yelling Allahu Akbar! over and over, at the top of his lungs. I can’t see much, but my old cop instincts kick in. Whatever’s going down, it can’t be good. Now, lots of people are screaming, and it doesn’t have anything to do with Allah, or any other deity, either. Well, I’ll take that back. There were a few, “Oh, Gods” in there, cause that’s what people yell when shit’s going really wrong. 
          I’m pushing my way through a wall of people who are going the other way, trying to get as far from the action as they can get. Ahead, I finally see this mope and he’s wearing that typical slouchy-looking shit they all wear, and he’s got a machete. Fuck. I’m packing a weapon, but I know if I shoot this dipstick, the cops are gonna be sponsoring a manhunt of epic proportions and I don’t need that shit.
         Then, the opportunity just presents itself. He’s got his back to me. Wide stance, swinging that blade at some old Jewish-looking dude, and it’s perfect. I step up and reach between his legs and grab his junk. I mean, I get it all, cock, nuts, sack and hair and I proceed to squeeze, yank and twist all in one motion. I feel him go stiff, then there’s that sharp intake of breath, then he’s bawling like a steer in the chute, just before the cowboy says, “Let him out.”
         He drops to the floor and folds himself into a fetal position, face red and contorted, sweat rolling off his greasy face and it smells like he may have shit himself. I take a half step back and kick him square in the solar plexus and he’s all done. The machete is laying there beside him. I pick it up, delicately, like you might pick up a snake that looks dead, but you’re not quite sure, and I realize the train is slowing. Three or four good New Yorkers are standing there, watching all this shit go down, and I step toward them and I say, “Um, ‘scuse me, this is my stop.” They part like the Red Sea and I step to the door. People on the platform step back, too. Probably because of the machete. I take it and drop it into the nearest trashcan and head on upstairs. . . .