American Spade

I'm holding the ace of spades. It's the only spade I've got, but it's the trump of trumps. We need to make 6 books to win this game, and my heart is beat beating to the beat of drum. Lately, Ke$ha has been a staple of my subway train routine. Something about her flat metallic delivery and the message of self destruction just gets me.

 DAMMIT. My electronic partner broke spades early, and has now put down the King. I have no choice but to trump his trump. There is no reneging in tablet spades.

 "I AM A FUCKIN' AMERICAN, YO, IMMA MOTHA-FUCKIN-LOVER OF THE U FUCKIN S A!"

 Even Ke$ha is having trouble competing with the tall thin man with the long gray ski cap, and the old black jacket. He's wearing khakis that are frayed in the cuffs and sports faded charcoal Timberland boots.

 "DONT GIT IT TWISTED, CUZ YOU MISSIN THE TRUTH THAT I AM A FUCKIN' U S FUCKIN A CITIZEN," he shouts at the top of his lungs. He's rocking back and forth on his heels, swaying as the train races uptown. His eyes are blazing brilliantly.

 UGH! We got 4 books instead of 5, and our opponents have won the game.

 "SON, YOU DONT KNOW NOTHIN ABOUT THIS HERE USA BORN NIGGA, NOTHIN! I'M OF THE USA! YOU SEEN THE STATUE OF LIBERTY? YOU SEEN THAT BIG ASS THING UP THERE? FREEEEDOM FREEEEEDOM. USA!"

 I lift my eyes as flecks of his spittle flake onto my jacket. It's my fault that I have become the object of this man's rant, but I'm more than a little awed that he's kept it up so venomously since we both got on in the lower east side.

 It started when I accidentally stepped on his foot when I entered the train at 14th street.

"Oh, Pardon me," said I as I sat down across from him. Little did I know that I would be starting a nationalist revolt.

 "NIGGAS WALKIN' 'ROUND HERE WIT HIS EXPENSIVE ASS SHIT TALKING FRENCH AND GERMAN AND SHIT AND HATIN AMERICA. WELL THAT DONT SIT RIGHT WIT ME. I. LOVE. AMERICA."

 The weekend trains are going local uptown, and we've just arrived at 77th. A white woman who has just gotten on ignores my enormous headphones and leans into me. "He's crazy, isn't he? Oh my goodness gracious. Crazy crazy, huh?" I lift my headphone and nod slightly.

 "At the hospital I work at, we had a patient just like him. You want to know what we did? We just ignored him until he calmed down." I smile vaguely and say nothing, taking her advice.

 "WE GOT INDIANS AND PUERTO-RICANS AND MY MAN OVER THERE WHO IS KOREAN ALL BECAUSE THIS IS FUCKING AMERICA. I MEAN LOOK AT THE FREEDOM FUCKING TOWER. IS THERE ANYTHING MORE USA?"

 I've started another game of spades. I'm on a three game losing streak so I decide that I'm going to bid conservatively, at least through the first couple of hands.

 "Isn't this just so sad? His brain is just so addled," the white woman says. She's grabbing my arm now and seems desperate to have me look at her.

 "AND AND MY PEOPLE WERE BROUGHT IN CHAINNNNNNNSSSSSS MOTHEA FUCKA CHAINS! 600 YEARS AGO, WE WAS BROUGHT IN CHAINS AND THAT'S WHAT I'M SAYING. IT'S BLACK HISTORYYYY MONTH IN THE U FUCKING S A! WE WAS CHAINNNSS!"

 The man seems to be losing his thread and Ke$ha's voice is beginning to grate my nerves. This old woman's leg is now resting on mine, and I can tell she wants to play footsie. It MUST be time to get off the train. As the train slows at 86th street, I breathe a sigh of relief.

 "GODDDD BLESSS AMMMERRRICCAAAAA" I blast in an earth shaking baritone. The monologuing man stops for a moment,  and our eyes lock in understanding. We are partners in this game of Spades. We are the trump of trumps.