COLUMN:f I love New York

From Joel's Chasnoff's, "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96 From Joel's Chasnoff's, "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96On the train from Philly toFrom Joel's Chasnoff's, "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96On the train from Philly tothe Big Apple, there's neverFrom Joel's Chasnoff's, "Ferrari Krishna," Fall '96On the train from Philly tothe Big Apple, there's nevera dull moment. The train ride into the city from Philadelphia had been an enlightening one. I opted for New Jersey Transit -- that way, I'd save about twenty dollars, and I could spend some quality time in Trenton. The Philly to Trenton part of the trip was relatively uneventful -- I read my Archie comics while listening to the soundtrack from Last of the Mohicans on my Walkman. Somehow, in my overtired state, it appeared as if Jughead had taken an axe and scalped Betty and Veronica to the battle cries of the oncoming Sioux. Off went the Walkman. The ride from Trenton to New York was a bit more exciting. The train was only half full (or half empty, if you're a follower of Brecht; of course, if you follow Zen, then the train wasn't even a train at all, but really, it was an overgrown flower with air brakes and an indoor heating system). I claimed a row of seats all to myself and laid down with my head beneath the window and my feet dangling into the aisle. Not five minutes into the ride, a man approached me and asked if he could sit down in the aisle seat. I looked around, and, seeing that there were at least four other completely empty rows in the car, hesitated to scoot over for the stranger. He told me to move over again, though not in so many words; rather, it was his body language that so effectively communicated his desires to me -- he started to sit down on my ankles. That was all I needed to hear, so I sat up straight and allowed Mr. Happy Unshaven White Man to sit down next to me. I stared out the window, running my routine through my head. In about five hours, I'd be performing a 40-minute stand-up comedy act at the Student Center of Hofstra University on Long Island. I had been hoping to live my entire life without ever going to Long Island, but since they offered to pay me in cash, my convictions flew out the window. As I listened to my routine in my head, I dozed off a few times until -- out of nowhere -- Mr. Happy Unshaven White Man yelled, "Gark!" It shocked me out of my daze, and he yelled it again, this time flapping his arms as he said it: "Gark!'' "What?" I asked him. "Gark!" he said. "Gark!" "Oh," I thought to myself. "Gark. Of course. Gark. How silly of me not to have understood him. What had I been smoking? "Gark," he barked again. "I'm covered with ants! Covered with ants!" Hence the flapping of the arms, I reasoned, as I watched Psychology 162 taking place in the seat next to me. But what could I do? The fellow was convinced he was covered with ants, and he was desperately trying to pluck them off his coat before they ate him alive. I went back to staring out the window, reviewing my act as an occasional "Gark! I'm covered with ants!" pierced the silence inside the speeding railway car. To be concerned about being covered with ants is perfectly normal. And to try to pluck them off -- I could understand that, too. But it went on and on. "Gark!" Finally, I erupted at Mr. Psych 162. "Look! Look at me! Look what I have," I exclaimed. "It's Raid! I have a can of Raid! Raid!" And I sprayed the guy with my imaginary can of Raid. I think I caught him off guard, judging by the look on his face. Of course, judging by the look on his face, I had also ascertained that he was missing one or two crucial enzymes, so my assessment had to be taken with a grain of salt. "There!" I explained. "Raid! Ants gone! Ants bye-bye! Raid!" Lo and behold, the man was quiet. He sat there, motionless, contemplating the fate of the million or so ants that had just been wiped out by my cruel spraying spree. Ahhh?quiet?at last. I looked out the window toward the Manhattan sky line that was approaching us from the northeast. And then, out of nowhere, the all too familiar voice struck: "Gark!" he said, arms flapping mightily. "I'm covered with Raid! Covered with Raid!" I stood in line for a good fifteen minutes outside of Penn Station, waiting for a taxi. Stranded in the New York cold (which is really very similar to Philadelphia cold, but with a much heavier accent), I walked a few blocks to West 40th Street and looked for a taxi there. As soon as my hand went up, a yellow cab screeched to a halt in front of me. I opened the back door and saw that for the first time in my life, the driver of my cab would not have the middle name "Ib'n." He was a pudgy fellow, a bit unshaven, especially around the armpits. l judged he was about 35-going-on-60-something, and his hairy belly was hanging out beneath an old, light blue t-shirt that said, "Do I look like a friggin' bank?!" This man was everything American, right down to the beaded seat cover on which his fat ass rested. "Where to, buddy?" he asked. "Hofstra University," I answered. "You know where that is?" "Do I know where that is?" he replied. "I know where that is. The question is, do you know where that is? That's all the way out on Long Island! It's gonna cost you a fortune!" "That's cool," I said. "Someone else is paying for my ride." "You kids today," he said, switching on the meter and pulling out into the New York afternoon. Evening was approaching, the glow of the setting sun danced off the tips of Manhattan's shiny metal towers, and I peered out the window at the masses of people running this way and that, caught up in the race for God-knows-what, while, off to the side, beneath the awning of a small pizza shop, there stood a man flapping his arms and shouting at passersby who just wouldn't listen. No doubt, he was probably covered with ants.