My Valentine: The Homeless Man With Trash Bag Full of Meat

Hey NXXXXX---,

I swear this is a true story.

Last night after we split up, I get on the train (it was impossible to get a cab and I had to drag my freezing ass across town in the slush and in my new boots) and when I get on the train this crazy homeless guy joins us.   With a giant industrial garbage bag full of meat. I know it was full of meat because he showed all of us, and it was clearly a really heavy bag.  He begins to rant, and I bury myself in the New Yorker. At 34th st. the seat next to me opens up.  He decides I look friendly (just like they all do. I am a magnet for the deranged) and turns to me to strike up a conversation -- he very sweetly and sincerely pointed to the magazine and asked me conspiratorially, "Is that educational or something?"

I had to talk to him. I couldn't see any way out of it without being rude.

So he asks me a serious of really intelligent, challenging questions about the article I'm reading.  It turns out, we're political allies. I'm actually quite enjoying myself at this point, becuase as we discuss the sad state of the world, he pulls a half-eaten steak out of said garbage bag and begins eating it with his fuzzy gloves still on.  I know it is only a matter of time. I determinedly carry on the conversation  and he offers me the other half of his steak. I politely decline on the premise that I have already eaten. 

He gives me one from the bag, for "later". 

I wrap it in the cover of the New Yorker, and agree to take it home. He assures me it is good.

The entire car of the train is, understandably, staring at me.  I stare back defiantly at the mystified crowd.  The guy and I agree that some people just have no manners whatsoever.  I get off the train at 86th street. He wishes me well, I the same, and he encourages me to vote and to "stay sweet". 

Utterly disoriented, and now quite sober, I make my way out of the train station carrying a half-eaten hunk of cow meat wrapped in the cover of the New Yorker, and promptly run into one of my old flames, with his new flame, who is like a Rockette or something, and definitely not accessorized with a two pound cold beefsteak wrapped in a prestigous weekly magazine. 

The fact that I don't give a shit about this flame is completely impresient; as I am clearly a weirdo.  Explanation was impossible. 

I go home, alone, and wish I'd just gone to the damn Delta Grill to hear Charlie like I promised, although at the same time, I'd have no humiliating, inspiring story like this to tell.  Next time, let's just split a cab.  I already have plenty of stories.