Did You Know the Devil's Name Is Mikey?

I almost rode my bike to work, but the martinis from last night whispered to my pained brain that I shouldn't. (Note to self: Do not drink with old bosses. You people are my downfall. Drunks.) Anyway, my legs could also use the time off to turn skin-colored and not bruise-colored again. (I don't know why I get so banged up when I bike. I like it.)

But, Jesus Christ, I am so happy I took the train this morning.

It was silent. We were still rattling on the R through Brooklyn toward Manhattan. And then the air was broken by a woman dressed in a teal tank top and gold, heeled sandals. She was in her late 40s, strawberry short hair.

"Hey Mikey! Get out of my people!" she said. "I'm sick of this shit. I know where you live, motherfucker."

Her voice poured out like acid. She waited a four-count then turned to the humans in the car and said: "That's right. I'm talking to the devil."

The devil's name is Mikey! Fuck! How did I not know this? Did you know this?

About 15 minutes later, hurling under Manhattan now, she turned to the car and said: "Mikey just hit that man."

A woman nearby who had recently entered the train looked at me, bewildered.

"Oh, Mikey is the devil," I told her. "You missed that bit earlier."

Her eyes popped and we covered our mouths like little girls, trying not to show the lady we were giggling.