Johnny Sits next to a Good Listener on the Crosstown Express
I'm what you'd call a no-hit wonder. No one is ever going to know my name. No one. My anonymity is legendary. Sure, it used to get me down. But to be honest, I don't actually do anything that merits fame or notoriety. Still, look around. That fact alone doesn't seem like it should exclude anyone from the limelight. My particular skill set is subtle. I am, for example, masterful at going to unusual bars. If they handed out belts for sitting on stools surrounded by sketchy strangers, mine would be black. It would also be off my pants and wound tightly around my left fist, just in case. As you can see, I'm slight of frame and uniquely annoying. I have to think ahead. Look, I can tell you aren't buying any of this and why should you? You don't know me (which incidentally, proves my original premise) and clearly you have little interest in taking an active role in this interaction. Fine. You're a good listener. That's your thing. But consider this: We are on the crosstown express. Traffic is glacial. There isn't another empty seat or hanging strap to be had. We're in this for the foreseeable future.
See that guy crossing against traffic, flapping and yelling like his tits are on fire? I get that guy. Sure, he's homeless as shit. Look at him. But he's not jaywalking and snarling at traffic just because he's homeless or nuts. He wants to have an impact. At this point, if he makes his mark on the world or the hood of a Kia it makes no difference to him. Get it? It's a win-win. If they swerve, he exists. If they hit him, he exists. He wants to alter someone's path, to impress his will, to be an agent of change. That need doesn't go away: rich, poor, crazy, sane. See, that's why I'm so special. I've killed it.