by Perko from Gut Rot

With editor notes by Ophelia Baulls

As New Yorkers, we’ve been conditioned to do or not do numerous things we might encounter each day. Giving up your seat to a pregnant or older citizen (ed note: like Richie, or Richie), never speak to or look at a shrieking homeless person in front of McDonalds, never go to Times Square, always argue the fastest route to Ikea, and NEVER GO ON TO THE TRAIN TRACKS. All rules I gladly abide by with enthusiasm and routinely stress to out-of-towners; however, this past Sunday I willingly, for the sake of Gut Rot and the spirit of competition, broke one of those cardinal rules.

Standing at the very end of the L train at 14th St. Union Square, the most optimal position for de-training at 1^st Ave., I was listening to music and generally getting myself hyped for a triumphant victory over Fart Rainbows. As any hockey player will surely understand, if you have a stick in your hands, you will spin it a few times just to make sure it is still working (?). Little did I realize when I woke up that morning, I would be tempting fate like I never have before (and that is saying a lot), because my beloved hockey stick of several years, tumbled from my hands, rocketed from the platform, and landed perfectly between the tracks.

My mouth agape, palms facing up like some taxi just cut me off in a crosswalk, I looked to my left and made eye contact with a man holding a laptop, wearing a drab safari hat and a pony tail any deadhead would envy, then right to a young blond women with a look just as flabbergasted as mine. After the initial shock and evaluation of my commitment to BTSH, I removed all possessions from my tailored track pants (ed note: appreciate pants-type specs), threw them on that fateful yellow threshold I would soon ignore.

I leapt down onto the tracks, quickly scooped up my stick like I had just dropped my dick (ed note: I have never dropped my vagina), and tossed it back onto the platform. I looked up to find my fellow commuters to find their faces drained of colour and in absolute disbelief, as I had done what you’re never supposed to do. With pure appreciation of their willingness to help me back up, I gruffly declined and summoned years of hockey board jumping wherewithal to boost myself back to safety. I quietly gathered my belongings and shoved them back into respective pockets, while I tried to hide my junkie-like withdrawal shakes, violent and completely involuntary. The adrenaline coursed through my veins, I could taste in my mouth, smell it in my nose, and feel exit my body with every deep exhale.

I had not planned on drinking that day, but within a 45 second window my whole outlook had changed from, “maybe I’ll do laundry after hockey” to “life is great and it’s a great day and I’m alive, so let’s celebrate.” I have dropped things on the tracks before (ed note: but not your dick), only to leave them with a few audible curses and pure inconvenience. Hockey is different, BTSH scheduling is strict, and a beloved hockey stick has memories of glory and defeat ingrained in every scrape and chip, for which I was not willing to sacrifice at the altar of the MTA. Sunday, I walked away with life, limbs, and stick, all intact and ready to drink.