Debbie Natale sat on the Path train in the middle of a one-sided conversation on her smartphone. It was loud and annoying. For at least 3 minutes she rattled off useless information to the other end of the phone and for the dozen people situated around her. Debbie Natale was looking a bit haggard these days, looking like the other side of 30 rather than the creeping 27-year-old she actually was.

I was annoyed by the scene, the sound of her voice but what was worse was when a busker came on board the Path train car. His guitar was strung over his back and he didn’t even strum a string. But Debbie Natale locked eyes on him and got off her phone, immediately telling the busker ‘No.”

There are never any buskers on the Path train. It’s a tightly run environment. No kids selling candy for their school sports teams either. These people can be found on the New York City MTA subway trains but not the Port Authority Trans Hudson line. I wouldn’t have minded the busker playing a tune but of course, that would have depended on what he was playing.

Debbie Natale was not having any of it. “No,” Debbie Natale said firmly and loudly again. This time she got the attention of almost everyone in that half of the Path train car. The busker had an idea she was talking to him, or rather talking at him. “No,” she said again not giving the busker a chance to even say anything much less sing anything. Most people have their earbuds or headphones on so they would not have heard anything anyway.

Finally, the busker was able to say something. “I’m not doing anyth-…” “NO! I don’t care! NO!” I said to the twenty-something kid sitting next to me that she didn’t seem to care about having us all listen to her phone call. He did not seem to hear me. The busker gave up and got out of the Path train car and Debbie Natale sat there smug like she was going to a maga rally.

The twenty-something kid next to me thanked her for doing what she did, saving the Path train car from a cover of ‘Hotel California’ or worse yet, ‘Don’t Stop Believin’” I guess I was of two minds, wanting to hear what the busker would play yet a bit anxious about what the busker would actually play.

If he was smart he would have sang ‘The Bitch is Back’ and dedicated it to Debbie Natale. But things being what they were he wandered off calling her a bitch under his breath. Debbie Natale victorious was a sight to see. Soon the train pulled into the final stop, Hoboken.

I got to the door as the Path train slowed to a stop. Debbie Natale was directly behind me anxious to climb the staircase to join the throng of young commuters forced into a bottleneck to go up that last staircase. I knew better and went the opposite direction where there was no one climbing the stairs alongside me.

Non Debbie Natale related post script- I deleted the blogroll that used to be on the right. I clicked a few blogs that I had listed and found that most of them had expired, one way or another. It seems that no one writes blogs anymore.

And here I am!

At it again I see. I am trying to get into the habit of daily writing once more. Not broadcasting the news, just writing. If people find out, then that’s fine. If they don’t, they don’t. Last go around I did yell into the void to see if anyone or anything would respond. There were my faithful two, my sister Annemarie and good ol’ Harry. I knew they read the blog and heard of others that read it, but no one stepped forward to say ‘Hi”.

This time I think I am better equipped to deal with the silence. Especially if I am not reaching out in the darkness. This is day 3 and yes, I can write. My once great Legume now drifting towards estrangement mentioned that I have a way with words and I just looked at him dead in the eye and said ‘You have no idea’.

And I don’t think he knows of this so let’s keep it that way. Seems more like heavy lifting this trying to create a habit of writing every day. But here I am. Bill noticed and stayed out of my way which was sweet. I told him didn’t need to be. A moment of irony- just now while writing that last sentence Bill calls from another room asking me to come in and hear something he had just written.

Bill did tell me he was going in the room for one hour to work and I figured I could use that hour to write, but he didn’t know I was writing since he was in another room 20 feet away. So my flow was interrupted but here I am writing. It was not that big a deal.

I purchased a book from a dear friend of mine from the Hoboken/Weehawken days, Cheryl Welch. I saw she had posted something online on social media and was quite taken with it. Another seed planted. I told her so this afternoon and she actually visited this here blog and quoted it back to me. We’ve traveled in close orbits for years and now she’s in California and she seems very happy!

It’s a humid evening in this mile-square city. And it’s been raining quite a bit for the past couple of hours. It seems to have stopped leaving one feeling that they’re wearing a wet wool sweater.

How do I write? Do I plan it out? Rarely, if ever. It just pours forth from my brain to my fingers usually unexpurgated. Then I would read it and publish it. Then I edit. Yes I know, it’s rather haphazard but that is how I roll, or in this case, write, or as Truman Capote would call it, typing.

Can anyone do it? I believe so. Should everyone do it? Maybe, maybe not. Hey, I’m just trying to get into the swing of things, getting some words on a computer screen. It would be cool if it were a typewriter and paper, but with these typing ‘skills’ the sheet of paper would be mostly covered by White-Out.