The man on my B train today started quietly. In a normal voice, as though about to begin a conversation with a friend. "People assume Union Square is named after union organizations," he stated. "But it isn't. It's named because it's the union of Broadway and the Bowery!" Notice the exclamation point-by the end of the sentence his tone had begun to betray him.
I looked up from my book. Between anonymous shoulders and handbags I glimpsed a black checkered shirt and graying hair. Benign.
"In 1811..." the man continued, and began a disquisition that moved from the historical-political dimensions of the nomenclature of various New York City locations (the Triboro Bridge, the Brooklyn Bridge) to present-day politics (an idea for pins declaring "My Mama's not for Obama"). People weren't paying any (physical) attention to the sermon in their midst.
I lost the trail of his pronouncements between the sounds of the train and my own musings on the oddness, and the normality, of the occasion.
(By the way, this blog is not titled B Squared because I ride the B. Pure happenstance that the subject became my first post.)
