Drip

Jonah has discovered Subway Stalactites. Sometimes while waiting for the subway you notice something dripping on your head. You look up. There is a real life stalactite there, hanging down a few inches from the ceiling. The corresponding stalagmites don't seem to form--too many shuffling feet disrupting the process, carrying home the Mystery Fluid to New York's many neighborhoods. In typical boy fashion, Jonah holds out his arm, hoping it will drip onto his sleeve. Then his leg, his shoe, whatever he happens to be holding. But he doesn't stop to question what the hell is this liquid dripping from the subway ceiling? It isn't raining outside. There isn't a pipe there. Only a sadly stained panel of asbestos laden material. Covered with peeling lead paint and sprinkled with mold and dry rot patterns that look like clouds. He tops it off by trailing his hand along the tiled subway walls, absently, while singing a chorus song in Latin. I patiently ask to see the color of his hands. Black. As I suspected. He doesn't like black hands, but that doesn't stop him from doing it regularly. "Can I wipe my hand on your jeans?" he asks. Ummmm, no. But here, you can have a wet wipe.