Roger was the kind of guy who liked to wax poetically on the beauty of suicide by G Train. The G Train, he said, was the most beautiful way to die, not because it left such an indelible mark on the tracks and the psychoses of everyone on the train or in the station, but because by choosing to jump in front of the G Train, one chose to wait. They chose to postpone their freedom. Roger Lygram was a patient person and he found beauty in his patience, so when he found his way into a holding cell on Canal Street (Roger found the NQR to be the least poetic of all the trains he could use as venues for suicide), he sat there and waited patiently to be freed.
After jumping a turnstile in Washington Square (the A and C were poetic, but only at night. The E was practically on the NQR level as far as he was concerned) in order to impress a boy he was taking back to Brooklyn to fuck, he was apprehended and he stood there as they yelled at him. He stood there patiently until the handcuffs were slapped on him. That was confusing and it raised a few questions:
1. What the hell was going on?
2. Isn’t this just a ticket?
3. I didn’t get his number. How will I see him again? He was cute!
To be fair to the NYPD, Roger wasn’t carrying identification. To be fair to Roger, his wallet was stolen by some creep at Greenhouse.
In the police van, Roger was shoved all the way to the back, but he still had enough movement to be able to text. He texted his friend Amanda, the following:
“Just got arrested. Call you later”
Amanda called and, Roger, being drunk, high on cocaine and stupid, answered it.
“Are you serious?” said one of the police officers before he confiscated the phone.
In the holding cell, Roger was offered a bottle of Dasani.
“I’m sorry, but I only drink SmartWater. I mean, I’ll settle for Ethos”
He then examined his surroundings, got yelled at for having a panic attack, transferred to the main jail, asked to cut the art school bullshit in order to avoid being sent to the hopsital for being crazy, photographed (terrible lighting, really), given two boxes of Rice Krispies and a carton of milk, yelled at for having bronchitis and hygienically spitting phlegm into the sink instead of the trash can, saw a grown man cry, was given a peanut butter sandwich (you don’t happen to have artisinal wheat, do you?) went in front of a judge, didn’t even get a ticket and then ran to the nearest station because it was raining where he transferred at Hoyt to the G. He got off at Classon, went to the other side and sat down.
And he waited.
And he waited.
And the train finally came.
