“I'm Just a Whiny Baby”

God, I’m such a cliché, sitting on a bench in Central Park, looking around for inspiration, trying to find the perfect, most poetic words to put on paper. The air is brisk, so my fingers are numb. Even thin knitted gloves are difficult to write with. The trees are all barren save a few dead leaves hanging on for dear life, so the sun shines brightly and thaws my fingers just enough.

Off in the distance, a baby cries in its stroller. It is angry and tired and hungry just like the man screaming “motherfucker” across the park in the other direction.

On the train yesterday, people tried to avoid eye contact with a man who was asking if anyone could find it in their heart to help him out. He didn’t appreciate being ignored, but when he raised his voice in annoyance and desperation, and some lady confronted him about it, he didn’t much care for not being ignored.

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” he screamed at her. She screamed back to not fucking talk to her, to not be so fucking rude. He screamed that she doesn’t know his pain, she doesn’t know his struggles. “None of you know my fucking struggles!”

He began pacing up and down the car, pushing his way through the people who weren’t bothered enough to move out of his way. A young lady wanted nothing to do with it and moved to the opposite end of the car. Another man patted the disgruntled man on the back, trying to calm him.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” screamed the disgruntled man, swinging around violently. His backpack knocked into a young Asian couple, who promptly moved to the opposite door. The train car was speeding along, throwing people off balance. The lady screaming at the disgruntled man doubled down and told him to have some fucking respect for people who are just minding their own business. “We’re all just trying to make our way in this world.”

“I don’t have food, I don’t have anywhere to sleep,” screamed the disgruntled man. “The shelters are full. I’m just trying to get $40 for an AirBnB for my wife and me.” He looked at a small, frail lady sitting, embarrassed by her husband, mumbling to him to stop his tirade.

The train pulled to a stop and the doors opened. The frail lady stood up and motioned her husband out the door. He was still going at it with the passengers, who all sighed breaths of relief when he was gone. They could go back to living their lives in peace. Until the next outburst.

I still hear the baby crying in its stroller as the grandma pushes it through the park. I feel my own tantrum starting. I’m not hurting like the disgruntled man on the train. I’m just a whiny baby wanting to be pushed around in a stroller. I’m the cliché, living the dream I was after, the struggling artist in New York City. But the dream is no longer a dream now that it’s reality. Reality sucks; it’s why we have dreams to keep us going. The reality of being a struggling artist isn’t as romantic as the dream of being a struggling artist. I might be one day away from being the next disgruntled man on a train, asking for help, screaming at everyone that they don’t know my pain. “Yeah, stand there staring at your shoes. Pretend I don’t exist.”

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