October 08, 2007
Friday, on a southbound train….
A couple of pimpled and above-average former prep school boys piled onto the train with their gigantic week-end-home-from-college luggage and began talking very loudly. One of them, wearing glasses and a decent array of zits, revealed within the first 60 (long) seconds of being on the train that:
a) he was a Freshman at Cornell
b) he lived somewhere in New Jersey
c) his father was a player on Wall Street and
d) is friend was a bumpkin from Fort Lauderdale.
His friend was not nearly so chatty, and appeared to be somewhat embarrassed to be seen with Zit Boy.
Here is how their conversation played out:
Zit Boy: We’re gonna get off at Harlem.
Friend: How do we get to New Jersey from there?
Zit Boy: We can walk to the GeorgeWashingtonBridge. It’s like, right there. Ten minutes, max.
Friend: I don’t know. What about the luggage?
Zit Boy: You’ve been dragging around all day.
(Brief pause while Zit Boy answers his phone and tells someone, and proudly, that he is headed to Harlem.)
Zit boy: Is that Swiss Army luggage?
Friend: I guess so.
Zit Boy: Man, that’s expensive luggage. That’s like, at least 600 dollars, that bag alone.
Friend: I know my Dad didn’t pay 600 dollars for this.
Zit Boy: That’s what it retails for.
Friend: I’m not sure about walking.
Zit Boy: We can take the subway there, then.
(At this point the conversation is interrupted by another passenger.)
Passenger: This train stops on the Eastside. You can’t take a cross-town train from 125th Street because there’s aren’t any.
Zit Boy: Oh, yeah, I forgot this train stops on the Eastside; we could've gone to the west side.
Passenger: There are no commuter trains on the Westside.
Zit Boy: Well, we can get off at Grand Central. Then walk to Port Authority.
Friend: How far is that?
Zit Boy: I don’t know. Maybe we can take the shuttle. Port Authority is like, five minutes from there.
Friend: I’m gonna call my Dad.
Zit Boy: I’ll call Beckman and ask him what’s best. He knows the city. He’s, like, here all the time. I bet he’s here now, out somewhere. He’s always here. He practically lives here.
(Pause while they prattle on during their respective calls.)
Zit Boy: No problem, I’ve got it all under control.
Friend: I’m hungry.
Zit Boy: Let’s get something to eat before we head to Port Authority.
Friend: Like what?
Zit Boy: Well, my Dad can get us in to any place we want.
Friend: Like what kind of place?
Zit Boy: It doesn’t matter. My Dad’s name open doors. It’s like, you know, people kiss his ass.
Friend: I just want a slice of pizza.
Zit Boy: No way, dude. You’re in fuckin’ New York City. You can get a slice in New Jersey. But we can do whatever we want in the city. I’m telling you, my Dad knows everybody.
Friend: Whatever. Whatever you want to do.
Zit Boy: I love watching these guys faces when they find out it’s my dad.
Friend: Are we going to drag our luggage to a restaurant? I don’t know.
Zit Boy: Okay, look, if you want, we can wait and grab a slice in New Jersey.
(A few seconds of welcomed silence as the two of them temporarily run out of things to say)
Zit Boy:Abierto. Doesn’t that mean something in Spanish. Like, “Of course”?
Friend: No, I don’t think so.
Zit Boy: Ropa Vieja. Old Clothes.
Friend: I guess.
Zit Boy: My Dad says that whenever he speaks Spanish, people freak out. And he likes, speaks German and Italian. He’s always freaking people out, when he says shit. I love it.
Friend: I don’t have a phone signal here. What’s up with that?
Zit Boy: My Dad says if you really want good service, you have to show people what you’re worth.
Friend: Why don’t I have a signal here?
Zit Boy: You must have TMobile.
Friend: No, Cingular.
Zit Boy: Maybe it’s your phone. My Dad says never to get the free phones. They’re crap.
Friend: I want to call my Dad. He doesn’t know where I am. He doesn’t know I’m on break.
Zit Boy: Tell him you’re in Harlem. Freak him out.
Friend: I just didn’t tell him. I should have told him.
Zit Boy: I just come and go as I please. My Dad makes sure everything’s ready for me. My room, a driver, the cook. Just in case.
(Another pause while the friend tries in vain to reach his father…)
Zit Boy: Anyway, my Dad’s name’ll get us in wherever we want. I’m telling you.
(At this point, a disgruntled female passenger makes a loud huffing noise; the two look around, then giggle)
Zit Boy: You’re gonna see. My Dad knows this city. I use his name all the time.
Female Passenger: Do you fuck with your Dad’s dick, too?
(The two boys fall silent, while the rest chuckle quietly. Zit Boy’s face is now completely red; the two pretend they didn’t hear the comment.)
Zit Boy: Let’s get off at Grand Central and take the Shuttle. We’ll get to Port Authority faster.
Tags:
commuter train talk, Cornell freshmen in NYC, the ugly and the stupid
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Posted on 10/8/2007
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