The Green Balloon

The Green Balloon
By Tod Crouch


    Now you gotta be crazy to think you can carry a balloon all the way to Harlem without someone messin’ witcha.  You gotta have a death sentence if yous a white boy, blonde hair, blue eyes, prolly a f*g, carryin a balloon inta Harlem at three in the morning. One of ‘em’s getting popped.  I hoped it would be the balloon and Casper wouldn’t pull some stupid macho s**t trying to prove manhood.      
    They disrespect themselves, getting all shaky like one of those little dogs.  There’s no dignity in a man who don’t know when to leave.  Sure as hell I ain’t jumpin’ up to save some damned fool who gets Harlem bound at night with a balloon.  Most of these cats figure it out and get off the next stop, fast and nervous.
    But this cat just looks out the black window, holding his green balloon.  Sure, he plays with it, letting it get tossed about inna air conditioning, reeling it in, letting it go. Just, you know, playing with it.  Everyone watched, trying to see who would finally grow too annoyed with the balloon, pop it, and get into a situation.  There was only about four or five of us in that car by 79th street, but he didn’t notice us.
    Aside from myself, there was the hardened maid on her way to the hotel to do  room service.  She was half asleep under tight hair and comfortable shoes.  Then there were two cats who might cause some trouble.  They didn’t notice me, since this balloon caught all our attention.  These two other cats had colors on an didn’t mess wit me, but a few drinks  in ‘em and could mean trouble.  They sat next across from each other, watchin’ him.  115th street  rolls around.  This white kid don’t get off.  He should, but it ain’t gonna make his scene any smoother. 123rd, I was sure these cats was goin to just wipe the rails with ‘em.  They walked right past.  He even held his balloon away so it wouldn’t get in their way.
    157th approaches.  We go under the water and yet he still stands.  I can’t turn away.  Why?  What makes him invincible? Am I supposed to be the one who pops his balloon?  No one else will, and yet I’m the only one who sees this inevitability.  At 172nd street, I got it.  
    That crazy white boy ain’t holding onto the rails, just the balloon.