Small child–7? 8?–on the F train sits down next to me, begins quietly singing to the tune of “My Darling Clementine: “Went to Hellll, went to Hellll, went to Hellll just now–”
Her 6-ish-year-old sister: “Which one is that? The up one or the down one?”
First child: “Heaven is the up, boring one. Hell is down.” (resumes singing)
Unfazed grandmother chaperoning them: “That song just goes on and on, doesn’t it.”
ETA: Later on, when the train was going from Manhattan to Brooklyn…
8-year-old: “Where are we now? Are we in Brooklyn?”
Grandmother: “Yes. No. We’re underneath the river almost to Brooklyn.”
8-year-old: “Why can’t I see any water?”
Grandmother: “We’re in a tunnel, because if we were just in the water the pressure would break all of the glass in the windows and everyone would die.”
…I really admire the undercurrent of subtle morbidness that seems to run in this family.
