To transfer between the 7 and the L train you have to walk an entire block underground.

Usually there are two buskers in the middle. The first guy is always sleeping next to a sign that says ‘nytimes published poet.’ He looks homeless. I have never seen anybody pay him to write a poem.

The sign connects his body to a story of ‘downfall,’ or ‘struggling artist.’

Then there is a guy who plays drums on turned over buckets. The big kind you get when you buy huge quantities of pool chemicals. It echoes across the whole underground chamber. Gets louder then louder then really really loud, then quiter then quieter and finally goes away as you duck into the next station.