Freaks of NY

Freaks. I’ve been inundated with them for the past few days. Maybe they came out of hiding when the seasons changed, like some sort of harbinger of upheaval. They stay dormant in some sort of pod-condo, plotting their assault upon normal. It’s as if reality is something that they just watch, not participate in; almost like the rest of us are on their own version of cable – they just choose a different channel for their own view.

I first noticed it yesterday, as I watched my bus approach the bus stop. Apparently, the driver felt as though the best method of propulsion for his vehicle was continental drift. It got better once we were actually on the bus, which was the next day.

As I left the bus, I followed a man who decided he was actually a drum machine. Every once in a while, he’d let out a ba-ba-da-ba, or something. Not quite scat – no, he was no Friend of Ella. Nope. Drums – with no headphones, iPod, or Bluetooth in sight. Freak. When he noticed me looking at him, he gave me a look that said, roughly, “This is perfectly acceptable public behavior. My actions are the result of years of grooming at top-flight finishing schools, genetic engineering, and strict – nearly anal in scope – personal behavior modification techniques. It is clearly YOU, sir, who has displayed the public mannerisms of an ill-trained camel. I take issue with your entire existence. Bu-dum crash!”

If you think that you can avoid scenes like this by forgoing public transportation, that is, by walking, you can’t be from around here. The Freak King title may have to go to the guy with the chair around his neck. OK, so it wasn’t a Queen Anne or a Barcalounger – it was only a funky folding chair, but it was around his neck. Here was an otherwise normal guy walking down Sixth Avenue in Midtown, sporting a four-legged necktie. Maybe he was in an eternal search for his separated-at-birth twin, the one with the same dimples, same laugh, same color eyes, but with a table around his neck. Maybe they had a falling out – one was an avant-garde Ikea fan, one preferred more conservative personal décor. Like I said, the one that I saw seemed pretty normal. Standard business suit, wing tips, briefcase. Chair around his neck.

The latest entry to this freaky circus was a religious experience. I say this due to its very nature – it was part Passion Play, part Bowery Boys. And I nearly walked right by it.

As I walked down 55th Street, I passed a group of five men who were in the midst of a discussion. Hardly freaky initially, until you notice Christ among them. He came complete with a crucifixion-sized cross (with a small wheel at the bottom for easier dragging along the paved Path of Sorrows that is modern Manhattan) and three possible disciples. The other man wore what can be gently described as street attire. I only heard one phrase as I hurried by, uttered by the modern-day leper. He said to this pseudo-Lord, as if discussing a business deal, “But, what I’ve always wanted to ask you…”

There was nowhere reasonable for me to stop within earshot to complete the eavesdropping. Reasonable. Huh. As if a homeless man – speaking to a resurrected Christ and his disciples on the streets of 2006 Manhattan – would even notice if I had stopped where I was, lit my hair on fire and began to lick the building next to them while bouncing on one foot.

In any event, this scene left me thinking down several paths. Were these ancient figures part of a street play, performance art, or demonstration? Was this “homeless man” just their sloppy pal? Had I misinterpreted his inquiry as merely a question to a friend, someone that he had recognized as an actor playing Jesus? Had I actually seen, and blown by, Himself?

Nah. Perhaps our leper friend thought that he’d finally gotten his chance of a lifetime. And maybe he did.

A few days later, walking down 54th Street (strange neighborhood), I saw – from a distance – a woman carrying what appeared to be a pole with two other poles sticking out of it. Was this some sort of metallic cross? Was I on some sort of a continuous quasi-religious journey, in which my dream state only transcended into my conscious mind as I walked these strange streets...

Oh, wait! She’s carrying a rack from a clothing store. But, I thought, wouldn’t that be a great metaphor for a bizarre off-off-off-off Broadway Passion play? The new Christ figure: An assistant manager of a retail chain store, a woman who would mark-down 30% for your sins. The evil District Manager from Corporate could attach her to the rack with those plastic price-tag things. Part-timers could anoint her in their finest new merchandise that they had just retrieved from the stockroom. She could teach the poor not to pay retail. She could have the Last Lunch Break. Maybe she’d rise again, three days after the Black Friday sale, to judge the stylish and the poorly accessorized.

I love New York.