TooMuchInformation

Last weekend my friend Michael visited from Boston.  Michael was the first person I met when I moved to Boston.  He was sitting on a bar stool in a coffee shop up the street from my apartment.  I asked for the sugar, he handed me the Sweet n’ Low, I asked if that was a hint.  He had just moved to Boston from Wisconsin a few months earlier.  We talked about being new in Boston, how New Englanders are difficult to meet, and became friends. 

While he was staying with me in Brooklyn, we went to a bar in the East Village.  A few other friends of his were also down from Boston and met up with us.  One of them was a man whose name I can’t remember.  But he had lived in New York a few years ago and he was excited to be back.  It came out in the conversation that he was born in Pune, India.  “Pune?” I asked. “Did you ever take the train from Pune to Delhi?”

“Of course!” he said.  Everything about his conversational style was exciting.  “Whenever I go home to visit relatives I always go to Pune and Delhi!  But now the airfare is not so expensive, so I fly instead of taking the train!”

“I see,” I said.  “And tell me, on the train between Pune and Delhi, is there a stop called ‘Monkey Hill’?”

“Oh yes!” he said. “How do you know about Monkey Hill?!  It’s a wonderful place.  The train stops and everyone gets out and feeds peanuts to the monkeys and takes pictures and laughs and has a great time!”

I knew about Monkey Hill from my friend Nisha.  She was another English teacher in Grenoble and grew up in Pune.  She wasn’t as excited about Monkey Hill as this guy, but close.  I can’t imagine being on a train, probably in a rush to get from one place to the next, and have it stop halfway so everyone can go feed the monkeys.  I can’t imagine buying a ticket on a train with a scheduled monkey stop.  “Express train only, please” I’d probably say.  “I’m in a hurry and not much of a fan of the monkeys anwyay.”

Nisha would smile when she spoke of Monkey Hill.  “They dance and do tricks and pose and wave for pictures!” she told me.  I wasn’t sure if I believed her.

But, here I was, walking down Avenue A with a stranger who glowed at the mere mention of Monkey Hill.  We started our conversation discussing the differences between Boston and New York, but ended with him reliving his childhood in Pune, feeding the monkeys.  “You should see all the pictures I have of Monkey Hill!” he told me.  

Lost in thought, I wondered what the US equivalent of monkeys would be.  Squirrels, perhaps?  Buffalo?  Rats?  I wondered if Amtrak added a stop called Groundhog Hill on the route between Boston and Philadelphia if more people would make the trip.  And with the growing ease of air travel in India, what will happen to Monkey Hill if train traffic becomes a thing of the past?

Someday, I’ll visit my friends in India.  I’ll be sure to see the Taj Mahal, the faithful bathing in the Ganges, and the Aga Khan’s jewels.  And I’ll pack a bag of peanuts to feed to the monkeys at Monkey Hill.

Every day after work I take the 4/5 express train from E. 59th Street down to Union Square and transfer to the L.  On this day, immediately after the doors closed and everyone was in the mindset to ignore each other, from the far end of the train car came the raised angry voices of a man and woman.  Strangers, they berated each other over what was apparently an offense of luggage that one incurred on the other.  I tried not to pay attention, only long enough to summise if there was going to be blood.  Satisfied that they were far enough away to have no violent impact on me, I opened my book and held onto the bar overhead. 

Until I heard it - the F bomb.  Back and forth, on to Gand Central Station the two continued their argument.  I made polite eye contact with the woman sitting in front of me.  Everyone around us crained their necks to see if the two would come to blows.

At Grand Central the doors opened, closed, and the train continued.  So did the two.  The new passengers reacted as I had, cautiously looking to see the cause of the commotion, disgusted by the incivility. 

At Union Square, their violent posturing still not ceasing, I was happy to leave the car and switch platforms.  On the L Train landing was a drummer and two tap dancers.  They’d been there all week.  I watched them sweat while waiting for my ride home. 

When the train came a man I’d been keeping away from on the platform entered the car behind me.  Possibly homeless, definitely touched, he was wearing a large sunglasses and a headband with springs popping out through his hair.  “I am Antennae Man!” he announced to the car.  Another peaceful ride ruined, I stood and listened with my eyes low as he told us his story of space and time travel and the message he was sent to bring to Earth. 

He had my interest.  Maybe his message was worth hearing.  Maybe I could learn something from the ravings of a lunatic.  He wasn’t saying much, but it was obviously in some sort of code.  I concentrated, my eyes still averted. 

He lectured for some time before spotting two young children at my end of the car.  He came down and announced that he had a special message for them.  My ears keened into him.  This was surely the moment when his message would become evident.  Our schedules collided for this purpose.  I would learn something profound. 

Leaning into the children, but performing for the entire car, he dropped an F bomb of his own.  Obnoxiously, loudly, insanely he shouted his obsceneties for all to hear, before spinning and exiting to the next car.  Anyone who had been paying attention shook their heads.  Those of us waiting to hear his message mentally kicked ourselves.

But in spite of the awkwardness, I did learn something that day from the arguing couple on the 4/5 and Antenae Man on the L.  When the F-bombs start, get out and switch cars.