I saw Lionel Richie on the subway.
We were returning to our luxury (more about that latter) today on subway 1 it takes us to 103 street. For one week we are upper west side people, not the bloke who lives by the Bagot pub. But I digress. Lionel gets on the train as we pull away from Times Square he introduces himself to us all. He does not own up to being Lionel R but he wishes us a good Labour Day break and begins to sing ‘Easy on a Sunday Morning’. His voice is not what it was back in the days when I desperately and inadequately would attempt to get to get a girl on the dance floor for that last slow grope I mean dance. Today there are no Commodores with him, it’s a solo gig. He is a bit less well presented than remember him on the TV, he is greying and is need of a shave. At the end of the gig which I may add was only one song, he reveals a small paper bag that once carried a burger and small fries. The only thing in the bag now is the smell and the grease of what was once a fine meal but poor man’s meal. He offers it around the train I’m sure he not willing to share any fries that maybe hiding in the creases of the fine bag. My guess at this point usually in Lionel R show people would be on their feet clapping and cheering. Many maybe embarrassed remembering where they partook in giving or receiving their last night dance/ grope. But no such honour is placed upon this Lionel. As much as he is sure in his performance we are embarrassed in equal proportion. Here in this land of opportunity I have no defence. I allow the bag to pass me by. At home I hide behind the assurance of my giving to the local homeless charity. I look at the other black people on the train, are they disappointed that it could all come to this? Opposite me are what I believe are mom and daughter. Mom has her hand rested on daughter’s thigh for the whole journey; it is an action of love and connectedness that is only broken by her financial addition to the greasy bag. Lionel moves out of the carriage to his next gig.I listened and gave nothing, fucking principles.