The Natives Are Ever-Restless, and Entirely Static

Last night I woozily listened to an autodidact on the train.

"Yeah, yeah, you guys have that Picadilly Square. And you had the Beatles. And then there were the Rolling Stones, sure."

The guy was pure Brooklyn. His accent was exactly pulled from its streets, like gum he'll never scrape from his shoe.

"Yeah, New York. How long have I been here? Forty-nine years, unfortunately. It's a disgusting place. The trash everywhere. Here, you call 1-800 numbers and they rush you off the phone. It's disgusting. I call 1-800 numbers in Texas and other places and it's not like that. What's Logan airport like? It's no JFK. Is it better than Heathrow?"

The young man next to him with the suitcase between his legs stared at the ceiling and nodded politely, smiling a small smile. He responded to all the man's questions, even though the man possibly had Asperger's.

"Oh, I'd love to live in London. What's the subway like there? I bet it's clean. Then you guys had that TV show. What was that show...? I have a job and all. I hate this city. The people are horrible."

What really stood out after so much chatter was when the young Briton said, "Well, you must have stayed here all this time for some reason."

Silence, except in my head, which said loudly and clearly to me that this man has stayed here all this time precisely so he could sit on this train and complain to a foreigner until he's nearly ejaculating with the pleasure of his own disgust. This man, I am quite sure, will never leave New York.