Crazy Train

Ah, Boston. The chowder, the gruff but lovable "sea-men," the immutable hatred of Alex Rodriguez. Who could ask for more?

But there's something distinct about "Beantown" that the guidebooks always forget to mention. And that is, to use the politically correct term, the "Subway Crazies."

Now, I know that every city featured in the Carmen Sandiego them--from Berlin down to Belize?--has its own version of the SC. But I just don't think it gets much richer than what I've seen so far.

That roly poly with a beard and a pink "Harvard Summer Picnic" shirt flail-dancing to a jazz guitar player as we wait.

The slightly scarier version of "The Doc" in "Back to the Future" ranting about red line construction as we putter across the Charles: It's because the bridge, the bridge divides us, and you have the Cambridge side and the Boston side. YOU STAY ON YOUR SIDE. And--and they WANT you to think that this is what they're doing, but they're not fixing it, oh no, no they're not.

Creepy laughter. Adjustment in seat.

A group of teenagers with beach towels draped over their shoulders try to stifle nervous laughter. "You going swimming or something?" he says, dangling by one pale, gaunt arm, eying their towels, careening around as his knuckles grip the pole above our heads. One kid looks around and decides to answer, "Uh, no." He looks back at his friends for help.

"Ah, sorry," the Doc grumbles, "I didn't know if it was a cultural thing or something..."

The kid does a double take, but he doesn't say anything. No one says anything, no one makes eye contact. We just sit there guessing why the train has slowed down. The Doc stays there, shaking his head, having a racist conversation with himself.

And then today, on the blue line out to Revere Beach, I grabbed a spot, not thinking why it might be vacant on such a crowded car. As more and more people squished together, locking me in, I began to notice the man next to me obsessively rubbing his face and scratching his head, making a high pitched noise that is half whimper, half chant. Thinking that maybe I'm making him uncomfortable, I scoot a little to the left. He has this hacking, wet cough, the only noise anyone is making.

When we finally reach the "Coney Island of Boston," his frenzied face rubbing has only increased. I tumble out and smell the salty air, hear salsa music in the distance. There are some nuns dipping their feet in the ocean and laughing. An ice cream shop called "Twist and Shake."

"Shut up or I'll kick your ass!" I hear a woman shout. I turn around and realize that she's talking to her three-year-old child.