p funk

l train, manhattan bound, rush hour on a thursday evening. two stops from the water in brooklyn a man rushes in as the doors close. he seems like everyone else. late thirties. khaki pants and a dark coat. his hat is green wool with earflaps. very nicely knit. expensive wool. he has a dark backpack fully on his back, his arms through both straps. this is the first hint, but the train is crowded and it escapes notice. he spins around and throws himself, backpack first, into the only empty seat on the train, much to the consternation of little old ladies, elderly men with canes and mothers with small, sleepy children. this is the second hint and some people glare at him, able-bodied and healthy, shoving his way into a seat while the weaker of the community struggle to stand.

and then it begins. there is a loud shout, "ladies and gentlemen, may i have your attention please!!!" the voice is two or three people away from backpack man and belongs to a creature from another planet. literally. he looks like someone put george clinton and all the p-funk all-stars in a blender and poured the results into a tiny, old man. but he is beaming. his glasses are made of pipe cleaner and glitter and plastic. he has antennae on his head. there are giant plastic jewels draped all over him and what has to be the most tragic saxophone in the world. backpack man's fingers go quickly to his ears. his hands, under the earflaps of his hat, tremble and shake. the saxophonist continues, explaining that his spaceship has crashed (the mothership?) and he's stuck here in need of assitance. a few people laugh or smile. it wouldn't be so bad if starchild actually found his way to the l train. starchild promises all the things you'd think a messiah could offer. his music will take us somewhere. somewhere that isn't a stuffy train getting ready to travel under the water into the city.

mr. backpack is by now rocking back and forth. his fingers are lodged well into his ears. his body, with its overstuffed backpack, grates against those on either side of him who have finally noticed him suffering. starchild begins to play. it is loud. it is out of tune, off key and anything else you might think of to say about music that doesn't work. it is terrible. he plays loud and fierce and with passion but without any skill at all. but quite a few people continue to watch him and smile. he plays under the river and back out again. it is like cats in a washing machine. mr. backpack continues rocking, growling, "i can't take this!" over and over again. up from under the river but not at the station yet, starchild finishes and a few folks clap. backpack growls quietly. starchild wants help repairing his spaceship. earth dollars will help. some people dig into their supply of earth dollars. starchild thanks us and promises us a gift when his spaceship is up and running. he will take george bush with him. what took you so long, starchild?