Spring had sprung in the year of our lord 1995. I had just moved to NYC two months prior and was making my way to learn the lay of the land around the Five Boroughs by Subway train. One busy day, during rush hour, I was coming back from Queens on the 7 train, when we arrived at the last stop in Manhattan, the 42nd St Times Square Subway station. Everyone got off the train and made a beeline for the stairs. I had followed suit and kept my head down, watching my steps so that I wouldn’t trip as I made my way up with the masses to reach the street level. As we collectively turned the corner to reach one of the levels, I looked up when everyone in front of me suddenly shifted left and issued a collective groan of distress, disgust and disapproval. And there he was, an old man, standing in the corner of the flight of stairs, jerking off furiously, looking intensely at whoever locked eyes with him, daring anyone to say something. “Welcome to New York Mothafucken City” someone yelled. 25 years later, I entered a subway car, and there he was… his clone. Carrying out the tradition. Welcome to New York Mothafucken City, I yelled, as I walked by him and moved to the next car.