The best part of traveling alone in New York City is the amazing opportunity to eavesdrop on people’s conversations. With no distractions, no friends to entertain, no family to ask touristy questions (“Can we take the subway to the Statue of Liberty?”), it is easy to become engrossed in the lives of your fellow travelers. And often, their lives become a great story for you tell…
This past Friday, weary from my latest adventure, I hopped on an N Train headed for Astoria. Having perfected the art of traveling unnoticed, I found a seat, took out my book and lowered my eyes. No one pays attention to a person reading a book, it’s like they’re not even there. At the next stop, a young boy and his, I presume, nanny got on the train. As much as I try to avoid children on these journeys, the crowded train put a wrench in that plan; the boy took a seat right next to me.
The boy, about five years old, was in a frenzied state of excitement, his legs and arms immediately began flailing around. Clearly his nanny decided to feed him Sour Patch Kids after she picked him up from school. She did her best to rein him in but five-year-olds don’t really have a sense of personal space. After about the second kick to my knee, I was ready to give the typical New Yorker loud sigh and eye roll. As I began to breath in, I heard the nanny ask him about the red letter sent home with him. My ears perked up. I needed to know if this kid was kicking other children as well! “He obviously has a history,” I thought. “Hopefully his parents get him the help he needs before it’s too late.”
The boy’s legs and arms came to a crashing halt. As if he was being questioned on the witness stand, he immediately laid out his defense. “Ms. Janet told the class we could play musical chairs. Sherri was sitting next to me. She always sits by me,” he said. (Typical anti-social New Yorker.)
He continued to tell the nanny that this little girl, Sherri, put her pony dolls down on another chair next to him. “I told her ‘your ponies can’t play musical chairs, Sherri, they’re not real.’ She started crying and I don’t know why. I was just telling her the truth.” (Typical New York realist.)
Apparently this "tattletale," Sherri, told the teacher and the boy was sent to the time-out chair. When the game was over, the boy had to tell Sherri he was sorry and that her ponies were indeed real. Unless this is some magical Kindergarten class, forcing a kid to lie about the realness of My Little Pony probably isn’t the best idea. Even though he "wasn't sorry," and he knew the ponies weren't real, the boy did what he was told.
He paused in his story, thinking he had satisfied his nanny’s inquisition, but he was wrong. “Well, if you apologized, why did you get a red letter sent home?” she said.
“Well," he said, hesitation in his voice. "We were having animal crackers for snack time, so I raised my hand and said ‘Ms. Janet, my mom said I can’t eat real ponies...’ She sent me back to the time out chair.”
He continued to tell the nanny that this little girl, Sherri, put her pony dolls down on another chair next to him. “I told her ‘your ponies can’t play musical chairs, Sherri, they’re not real.’ She started crying and I don’t know why. I was just telling her the truth.” (Typical New York realist.)
Apparently this "tattletale," Sherri, told the teacher and the boy was sent to the time-out chair. When the game was over, the boy had to tell Sherri he was sorry and that her ponies were indeed real. Unless this is some magical Kindergarten class, forcing a kid to lie about the realness of My Little Pony probably isn’t the best idea. Even though he "wasn't sorry," and he knew the ponies weren't real, the boy did what he was told.
He paused in his story, thinking he had satisfied his nanny’s inquisition, but he was wrong. “Well, if you apologized, why did you get a red letter sent home?” she said.
“Well," he said, hesitation in his voice. "We were having animal crackers for snack time, so I raised my hand and said ‘Ms. Janet, my mom said I can’t eat real ponies...’ She sent me back to the time out chair.”
Maybe this kid wasn't so bad after all.
*Although I have overheard tales like this on the subway, this story is a work of semi-fiction.
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