It was one of those late Dick’s or Frankies-nights, heading back from the East Village to Williamsburg. Waiting for the L-train to come. Long after midnight, nobody else on the platform besides one lonely, fucked-up gutter punk, who kept coming closer and started aggressively begging for money. Usually, I would have given him a dollar. This time, though, I somehow didn't want to. I tried hard to just ignore him, but my attitude seemed to only upset him. He began gesticulating more and more wildly and yelled incoherently at me. No escape. No help. Unpleasant situation. Minutes stretched on endlessly, my fear grew. Finally the train roared into the station – my salvation. Suddenly, the guy grabbed me, hissed: "Happy Birthday Brother!" and thrust his tongue into my mouth. I stumbled on to the train, filled with disgust. The door closed and the train rumbled into the dark.