As a hillbilly, I often feel out of place when I ride New York's subways.
Riders are cranking Ice-T on their headphones. If they happen to hear a snippet of my Sam & Kirk McGee bluegrass songs playing, I get strange looks.
Most wear black jeans, black T-shirts, black jackets and black boots. I wear blue jeans and a orange T-shirt with "Tennessee" emblazoned boldly across my chest. To paraphrase The Most Interesting Man in the World, "I don't always wear shoes, but when I do, I prefer tennis shoes."
So it was with great joy I learned that one of my Southern kin hitched a ride on the D-train the other day: The noble possum.
The New York Times, the newspaper of record, recounted this turnstile-jumping rodent's ride, foolishly spelling it's name as "opossum," which I learned is how their stylebook requires it be spelled, er, spelt. Apparently it scurried aboard the train, which runs from Coney Island for an hour all the way into the Bronx, somewhere shortly after it left the first station.
Seeking warmth (who isn't in New York these days) it cozied up to the heaters placed under the seats and took a nap. Several policemen were dispatched during the train's run to shoo it out the door, to no avail. It wasn't until after the train had completed its northward run and was in the Bronx railyard that the possum split.
My guess is, it was worried the train would take it even further north.