Long Island Railroad Winter Cleaning
Still more unsolicited old school advice as we wait for the 5:33am train into the city
Third in a series of conversations I had with Tom da Lung Eyelund Carpenta as we waited for our early morning commute into Manhattan, this pre-dawn winter weather particularly chilly…
“Cold enough fer youse? Twenny-five feels like zippo degrees eff cause a da wind chill factory, an onna account a our frozen hearts.
I’s figgered da winta was so bad dat da spring would a rolled smoodly right in widdout missin a beat, icebergs chasin da Titanic, Son, freezin-ass blizzerds slammin da warm deck a my boat.
But no such luck, snow an sleet at da end a March, da fuck is up wid dat? I don’t care dough, damn da torpedoes an full speed ahead, raise da anchor an sail right out inta da glaciated oceanic wasteland!
My mission prerogatives are clear as me sins are obvious: Hurry before da old lady smells da first whiff a summa, an tells me ta reupolsta da couch, tweak da lights, or put new wallpaper up in da livin room.
Her latest kick? Swappin da kids rooms!
Shit is always movin round da house fer absolutely no reason — chairs, tables, whole fucken rooms, bro.
‘House cleanin’’ she sez, as if dat makes any sense, as if I would fucken believe her.
How is movin everytin gonna be helpful to dees ends? Don’t matter, and don’t ask. I undoorstan da troof: I comply, or stay dry.
Fact a life.
No eggzcuse or reason ta argue. Might as well turn it all upside-down, shake it oiut, and call it a fucken day.
Anyways, now she eckspecks me ta haul Tommy. Junia’s stuff ta Antony’s room, an Antony’s shit back ova ta Tommy, Junia’s.
But we’re not tawkin IKEA, I don’t buy balsa wood gahbage dat youse trows inta da dumpsta on youse ways out the slidin glass doors a da facility. We’s tawkin natooral oak desks an shelvin, bolted right inta da fucken walls.
Pain in da arse ta unscrew, drag on ova an rescrew, in case youse losin track. Complex operation, and I neva fuck aroond.
But she’s lyin to da kids, not even talkin ta me! ‘Just temperary,’ she says, ‘We’ll move youse boys back next spring…’
Yeah, right.
Please ecksplain ta me why da fuck we’re movin dat shit now? Why da fuck move dat shit at all?
Boggles da mind.
Meanwhiles, I’s glad da five-turdy-tree train ta our horrible jobs is already here, or I woulda gladly jumped in front a it.
Maybe sometin terrible’ll happen on our way into da city dis byooteeful mornin. We’s can only hopes.
See youse tomorrow, rinse an repeat til we’s drops dead.”
Enjoying Tom? Here’s some more…
