You Know You Love Hoboes

The Mouse and I went to a party in Astoria on Saturday. We both live in Park Slope, which is about an hour and fifteen minutes away. Also, the trains were screwy this weekend, big surprise, so the entire excursion was more difficult than it needed to be.

At around 34th Street, a hobo couple got on the train. The lady was Chinese, elderly or ill-used, and wearing an assortment of bright clothes. The guy was Jamaican, also worn looking, and wearing sweatpants and the requisite Velcro sneakers. (No one wears this but homeless people. Are they issued to them by the City?)

After a few stops, the hobo lady got up and leaned on the Mouse, who was guarding my virtue as usual by taking the outside seat in our bank of two. Before my eyes, she wriggled around until she had one brightly clad ass cheek on either side of poor Mouse's shoulder.

"Are you seeing this?" he asked.

"Indeed I am."

"I have hobo ass on my arm."

"You sure do!"

"Do you have your lighter?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"When we get off this train, I want you to light this arm on fire."

I snorted.

"I'm serious. I'm going to cut it off and get a shiny new one. Made of metal. With attachments, like a Swiss Army knife."

"OK, that's awesome. Also? I really hope she farts on you."

"I hate you so much."

Snort.

"I mean it. If she farts on me, I'm going to kill you."

She didn't. However, he claimed his arm was numb from hobo ass germs. Always a good sharer, he proceeded to chase me up and down the platform, screaming, "Hobo ass! Hobo ass!" and trying to rub his arm on me, to transfer the cooties.

No one looked at us at all.