Back in '66 my friends and I would hit this plastics warehouse on Canal Street. Man, they had all SORTS of plexiglas: panes, boxes, bowls, light fixtures, suction cups, rolls of brick red and black rubber, pipes, tubing, it was synthetic heaven. We'd steal some suction cups, stuff 'em in our peacoats and receed into the subway.
We'd take the D-train into Brooklyn. It screeched to a stop with a long sigh, like this load, above all others, was the heaviest yet. When it stoped and the doors slid open, we'd sneak around and suction ourselves to the front. Is that a verb? "Suction"? . . . It is now. Anyway, man, the thrill we got. It would start out slow, jerkin' along, then pick up speed. . . Faster and fasterandfasterandfstr, the wind slapped us in the face, sparks flew on the corners, it was pure madness. After a while, we wouldn't even NEED the cups. The speed would glue us to the front push our heads back against the cold metal. The noise, my God, the noise. metal on metal, wind through tunnels, our screams and laughter, and the bounding of other trains passing us. And always rocking back and forth.
We got to the beach pumped up with energy. Beating the air with our fists and screaming with the trains. I fell in love with it all. That high. I was obsessed and addicted.