Lost Cause
I reach for my metrocard. You gotta be kiddin’ me. Pat pat, pat pat.
Oh shit.
It’s gone. My wallet.
The Jamaican mama occupying the ticket booth must have cottonballs up her ears, she takes so long to respond to my plea for help. When I tell her my wallet is missing, she barely hides her irritation; Don’ gimme none o’ yo problems, her expression warns. She’s doing me a favor, you see. Out of the kindness of her meager heart, she begrudges a sarcastic jab.
“What do you want me to do, call the police?” How ridiculous are you? she adds, without saying.
I know what’s up. Some people just want to make themselves feel better at your expense, no matter the situation, no matter the shamefulness of it.
She doesn’t know just how much she reminds me of the inconceivably rude train ticket agents in China. Give someone a modicum of influence, watch it go straight to their heads. How haughty they are, sending the helpless back to the end of the line at a whim. How imbecile their exaggerated frustrations, the melodrama of banal existences. How dead their spirit of justice, serving those who cut the line as if it were their birthright.
Thank god this is America, where some people still do the right thing.
Meditation at MoMA, a message. My wallet.