(TL;DR: This post references people on Tumblr who have hurt others. For this reason, it’s behind a Read More. Trigger warnings are in the tags. I hope that I did this right. I’m sorry.)
Would God really take her own name in vain, though? I mean, that’s a little weird man. Like what if God was one of us?
If God was one of us, she would run screaming into the middle of the Prospect Expressway.
The funeral would be righteous, bro.
God is eating a sick nacho in her pajamas when the angel Gabriel knocks on her door.
"Mum? It’s the Leviticus Alarm again. This time, it’s real."
"Oh, God dammit," she says, as she straps on her laser cannon. "It’s my lunch break."
Let me paint a picture of this man for you. Imagine Denis Leary of Rescue Me and Ice Age fame. He’s got a glassy eye, a scarred smile, and deep wrinkles from years of living. That is Dave, who I saw today on the No. 2 train going towards Flatbush Avenue.
When I first saw him, I thought he was dead. A hot dog sat mustard side down on the train floor below him. He was hunched over with the bun in his hand. I didn’t think I knew him at first. To me, it was another guy who could use a desperate call to 311.
People pointed and laughed at him. High schoolers, mostly. Some adults left the car after one stop because of him. I wondered how uncomfortable they really were. How offensive was the hot dog to them?
At Bergen Street, Dave popped his head up. I happened to look at him at that moment. He looked back. He pointed, and he smiled.
I got up and shook his hand. I was genuinely excited to see him. “I know you, man. How are you?”
"I’m a little fucked up," he said. He showed me the hot dog.
"I can tell," I said. "At least you’re eating."
That made him laugh. “God bless. Listen, I gotta get to Fulton Street. You know, I used to live there.”
He’d told me this the last time I saw him. “Why are you going back?”
"Ah, I don’t know. Family shit. Money shit. It’s always something." He waved the idea away. "Anyways, where do I transfer to get there?"
"You can get off here," I told him, as the train pulled into Grand Army Plaza. "Just go right across the platform and hop on the next train."
He got up and shook my hand again. “Good to see you again. Thanks for the help.”
"No problem," I told him. "Get home safe."
As the train doors closed behind Dave, I realized that I’d said “Get home safe.” I didn’t know if he had a home. I didn’t know anything about him besides his name, where he used to live, and that he’d been through some shit. But I felt somewhat lucky to have met him at all.
I hope that things go well for Dave. If you ever see him, and he talks to you, listen to his story. Sometimes all people want is for someone to listen. Sometimes, that’s how someone survives.