On the way home from work today, I was waiting at the Broadway-Lafayette station for the D train. Anyone who goes on the D/F/V line and gets off at Bway-Lafayette will know that there’s an old flute player who stands there and plays for hours. He’s become something of a monument. You will know when you hear the sound of a flute that your day is over, and you can finally go home and relax (or slave away at your art homework). And for that, every salaried worker, every student - every pedestrian pays a mutual respect for this bearded man with his flute. A little tip of the hat in the less-judging confines of your own psyche.
Today was different. Walking down the stairs, I saw the flutist (floutist? flounderer?) holding not his flute, but a postcard - something along those lines. That struck me as odd, and when I turned back to look, he was gone. Perplexing. I shrugged it off as the F train on the opposite track did the usual rumble and squeal into the station. That’s when the bright coat caught my attention from the corner of my eye.
Ahah! There you are, bearded enigma of a flute player. As if it weren’t remarkably strange that he wasn’t playing the flute tonight, he was boarding a Brooklyn-bound F train. And not just any train, the DEVIL’S F TRAIN.
Well, not really.
There was a man/college student dressed in a devil suit, all red. Of course, being New York, we don’t fuck around with just any devil suit. This suit came with flashing horns, promising not only a fiery afterlife, but one with epileptic seizures. Hardcore. Naturally, the devil-suited man started a conversation with the flutist. Naturally. And the train rolled out of the station.
The flutist consorts with Satan.
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