ugly topic

I get on the bus, and see a hat and a pair of gloves sitting on a seat. I know the feeling.

"Someone left their hat and gloves on the bus," I tell the driver.

"Just leave them."

"Are you going to turn them in?" I ask.

"I said just leave them."

"But you are going to turn them in, right?"

"Lady, why do you even care?"

"I'm just trying to do the right thing."

"Then just sit down."

"Thank you bus driver 101 on the Crosstown 79," I say. 

He is unfazed by my unspoken threat of exposing him to MTA management of being a monumental dick.

That's how the evening starts. 

I meet Carol in the West Village to see a new play called The Nether.  Carol and I have a season subscription to MCC, a theater company downtown. I skim the reviews and see they are overwhelmingly positive, but I don't read too much so I have no idea what the play is about. 

Before the show starts, Carol and I discuss Jon Cruz.  He's the debate coach at Bronx Science. Mr. Cruz, 32, is nationally recognized for his skills as a debate coach. Carol's son, who is now a senior at Dartmouth, was captain of the debate team when he was a student at Bronx Science. Mr. Cruz is well-loved by his students, and is a mentor and supporter of many. Yesterday he is arrested for persuading teen-age boys (as young s 14) to send him nude or suggestive photos via cellphones  in exchange for gift cards. It is both shocking and heartbreaking for those who know him.

The plays starts. it takes place sometime in the future. Soon we realize it's about virtual child molestation and other acts of violence against children.  I find the play too creepy to like, and can't wait for it to end. It feels almost sordid watching the story unfold.

On the way home, Carol and I get into a spirited conversation about what constitutes abuse. She looks at me at one point and says, "Where are we?"  Her question is a literal one. I look outside our stopped subway car and see we are at 110th Street; we should have exited at 79th.

It takes us a lot longer to get home than it should.  But that gives us more time to talk and catch up. We end the night laughing at our mistake, and talking about more breezy topics. Like apartment renovations. Hers are real; mine, sadly, are only virtual.