Futility, and the People who Wear it Well

I’m sad today. I’m preoccupied with doom and gloom. I’ve been sitting in my cubical staring at blank computer screens, as my internet connection fails me, for too long. All day the internet has been floopy, like jumping from buildings into pieces of Swiss cheese; a frustratingly awful impossibility.

I’m filled with worry over world affairs and affairs closer to home. My mind is on sick friends, lost socks and keys I will never find.

I’m reminded of the young, hot cop on the L platform last Saturday night. Coming from a show at North Six, we trampled down the stairs toward the Manhattan bound train coming into the station; it stopped abruptly. A full platform littered with hipsters gurgled, grumbled, and mumbled. Through the crowds, the young, hot cop paced nervously, applying his little flashlight toward the tracks under the train. Assumingly not keen on his crowd control procedures, the cop addresses the crowd as causally as he can afford.

Young, Hot Cop: “Um, by any chance, did, um, anyone, ur, see someone on the tracks before the train pulled in?”

Crowd: “gasp”

I was surprised he didn’t try to misdirect without a harmless question.
Young Hot Cop: “Um, by any chance, does anyone know the time and, um, if, you know, some was on the tracks?” (being crush to death by the train)

He proceeded to pace, talk on his walkie talkie and shine his tiny flashlight here and there.

After another minute, the train pulled completely into the station as everyone, practically fell to their knees to peer under it. We got on the train, so I don’t know if someone really was on the tracks, or if it was some young cop hazing on a Saturday night. What I do know is that as soon as we boarded the train, it was obvious to everyone that the gentleman sprawled out on the seats had crapped his pants. We switched cars and talked about the hot, young cop and crap all the way to Manhattan.

RHTL: Arcade Fire Tonight...not the same without three.