Being an Andalusian here in New York City, there are a number of things that I sorely miss. I miss green tomatoes. I miss cornbread. Shoot, I miss my mama. And ranking somewhere between Chilton County Peaches and my immediate kin is the automobile That’s right, I miss my car.
A number of New Yorkers have snarled at my whining about not having personal transportation.
“We got the greatest mass transit system in the country,” they cry.
Let’s get something clear right here and now: mass transit is for communists. On buses and subways I have to breathe other people’s air, listen to their music, and worst of all they often touch me. And in the summertime, there are few things worse than being jostled by a 350-pound, sweaty Yankee woman named “Madge.”
Before I came to New York City, I didn’t care about mass transit.
In Andalusia, mass transit is constituted by more than two people in any one vehicle. I suspect that’s because we’re great Americans and know a communist plot when we see one.
In Alabama, we have the good sense not to let 13 million people live in an area smaller than Covington County.
Not so in New “Yawk” City. The government likes to see how many people it can jam into any given space. It’s kinda like those telephone booth stunts from the 1950s.
I’m sure you can imagine how disastrous it would be if we threw another 12,990,000 people into Covington County.
Needless to say, Andalusia would no longer be “The Fastest Route to the Beaches.”
And I’d bet money that the square would be torn up for the next few millennia.
East Three Notch might have five lanes.
It would take two hours to drive from the Courthouse to the library.
The Bypass would have a toll.
It would be mayhem. Calamity. Disaster. It might look a whole lot like New York Or would it?
In New York, people don’t look at me when I pass them on the street. And they certainly don’t wave or say “hey.”
An out-of-town friend of mine thought I knew everyone in Andalusia because everyone waved as they drove by. He didn’t believe me when I told him that people were just plain friendly in my hometown.
If you wave at someone you don’t know in New York you had better be carrying a sidearm.
If Andalusia had a subway system would it be filthy and nasty? Would people stare aimlessly at the podiatry ads with what I call “metro face?”
I say to you, we would not. An Andalusia subway would be a social event. It would be a ruckus. There would be a hullabaloo every morning of people talking and slapping each other on the back.
Men would give women their seats. The conductor would speak in English. Doors would be held open for people toting bags of groceries.
Would we have mundane subway names like the “A” train and “51st Street Station?”
Shoot no, we’d name things fun: “Gantt Grand Central,” “Red Level Redeye;” and
“Dozier Cannonball.”
The worst thing about the New York City Transit Authority is its complete inability to make trains smell decent. By the time I get to work, I swear I smell like people have relieved themselves of my person.
I don’t understand this.
The New York City Transit Authority just spent $700 million on this credit card doohickey that replaces subway tokens, yet they can’t seem to splurge $500 on a few air fresheners.
Whew. If only trains had rearview mirrors. I would personally donate a few fresheners to hang. It might give the subways some class.
Naturally, the smell factor is unnerving. Obviously, though, all subways don’t have this problem. I pondered this as I watched the old movie “Algiers.”
Many of you probably remember “Algiers.” It had to do with this fellow named Pepe Le Moko who was sort of a glamorous criminal who lived in a really sorry section of town called the “Casbah.” The Casbah resembles North Birmingham, which is to say. It ain’t really pretty,
This naturally distresses our glamorous Pepe; who used to live in Paris. You know how particular the French can be.
Eventually, ol’ Pepe leaves the Casbah only to be shot and killed, but before that unfortunate business, he meets the lovely Gaby. Gaby, played by the gorgeous Hedy.
Lamar is supposed to be from France. She has kinda’ of a crazy accent that makes her sound like she’s from Wetumpka, but never mind that, she looks French.
So in typical French fashion, the two look at each other for about 30 seconds before they say anything. This is high drama here. And about the time the audience is wondering whether this is a silent film, Pepe asks, “Do you know what you remind me of?”
Hedy Lamar returns his lascivious stare. “The subway,” he tells her.
No wonder they shot him. What kind of moron tries to woo a woman by telling her she reminds him of a 90,000-pound train? But she seems to buy it, and ends up giving him one of those big kisses from the 1930s (naturally the camera backs away and the audience ends up looking at the Casbah instead of Hedy Lamar being debauched).
After watching this movie I decided that either a.) French trains must be nicer, probably spritzed with Eau de toilet or something or b.) I’ve been missing out on a good way to flatter potential dates.
Since there is a shortage of French subways in New York City, I decided that the only way to test my theory above was to try out the subway pickup line on a few
New York women.
At a party last Friday I spotted my Hedy Lamar. She actually looked a lot like Hedy, except that she was in color.
So I sauntered up (I’m good at the saunter), and I looked at Hedy for about 30 seconds while raising my eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
When one of the bartenders asked me if I had something in my eye, I figured that I needed to make my move.
Hedy turned her head and pushed back! her long dark hair. She was a bombshell.
Hubba hubba. Bells and whistles started going off in my head. Perhaps this subway thing did make sense. I got the same sick feeling in my stomach that I always get on the subway. I felt like I needed to hang onto something. The room seemed to lurch.
“Do you know what you remind me of?” I asked
“No, what?” my little mass-transit beauty answered.
“The subway.” Now that I have finally been released from intensive care, I can conclusively tell the fine people of Andalusia that French subways must indeed be nicer.
Stay out of dark tunnels, Andalusia.