You couldn't script the mayhem any better.

I WALKED down to the same deli at the same time, stepped through the doors and worked my way carefully along the narrow aisle to the soda coolers.

In recent weeks, the guys who run the place have gotten into the bad habit of stacking the soda cans two or three high on each shelf. This leaves things very unstable, especially if the one you're after is on the bottom. That's why I wasn't overly surprised, upon opening the cooler door and reaching for one, to hear a can clunk over on its side.

What did surprise me, however, was the angry hiss-as well as the fierce spray of cola directly into my face. Then down my coat and neck and arms. I was frozen there for a second, not knowing what to do or where to go as the sticky seltzer splashed into my mouth and eyes and hair. I felt like Keenan Wynn, unable to do anything but stand there in shock.

Finally I slammed the door shut, wiped myself off as best as I could and grabbed a soda from the next cooler down.

I thought those cans weren't supposed to do that anymore.

I returned to the office mildly stunned, and more than a little embarrassed. I washed myself up as best as I could in the bathroom (deciding to wait until I got home before doffing the shirt to swab my sticky chest and belly), then continued with the day.

The rest of the evening was fine. Morgan came by; we had a few beers and watched a movie. The next morning, even with the chill wind and the drizzle, things were still fine. Until, that is, we stepped aboard the train and the doors closed behind us. That's when we heard the preacher.

"He be de way, de troot an' dee light," the man announced loudly. "Whoo-sever bayleebet' in Heem sholl not parish, bot shall hab evahlahhsteen' life!"

Nothing against what the man had on his mind, but jeepers, it was 6 a.m. He shoved his way past us without breaking stride, never missing a beat in his catechismal recitation.

"De Lord my god say?"

"What would Jesus do?" Morgan asked after the preacher knocked past her and continued down toward the other end of the car. "I think he'd say 'Excuse me.'"

The preacher parked himself a few yards away, reciting his endless string of tired, dusty Bible verses.

Even more horrifying was the fact that, whenever he paused to catch his breath, we could hear that the man sitting over by the window was at it, too.

"Seventy-five percent of the people on this train know that what he's saying is true," the middle-aged fellow was telling a woman he may or may not have known. Whoever she was, she didn't exactly look captivated. "So you know what original sin is?" he asked her (as pick-up lines go, I've heard better). Then, without waiting for an answer, he went on. "You see, man is born in sin, but the blood of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ washes it all away."

It was clear that this was no longer simply a coincidental meeting of the minds, but rather the work of that insidious Mel Gibson and that stupid movie of his.

Morgan and I were, apparently, the only two heathens on the train-as well as the only two who hadn't bothered to see the movie. It suddenly felt like we were waiting there to be stoned to death.

We held our breath and our tongues until both men shut up and got off the train-which, luckily, only took a few more stops. A few stops after that, Morgan got off the train, and three stops later it was my turn.

For me, the 23rd St. subway station amounts to one great, big blind spot. From the time I step off the train until I finally hit the sidewalk, I'm in deep shadow. I can feel and hear people moving around me, but can't see them, except for the occasional silhouette that appears directly in front of me. I tend to move very slowly, in order to avoid major collisions. Along the way, I dredge as much useful information as I can out of the sounds and the shadows.

Just through the turnstiles, I felt the toe of my shoe collide with someone's heel.

"I'm sorry," I said. "excuse me." There was no response, so I assumed it was no big deal (it was a crowded subway station after all; this sort of thing was to be expected), and continued shuffling toward the stairs.

^^^

A few feet shy of the bottom step, however, I felt it happen again.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "excuse me." It's reflex on my part-in any collision, I assume that I'm at fault.

This time there was a response. The man I'd just kicked turned around and blocked my path, as well as the paths of those behind me.

"What in the fuck is your problem?" he demanded. "That's the second time you did that."

I attempted, in what I thought were gentle, soothing terms, to explain exactly what my problem was. It seemed to have no effect on him, though, until I produced the cane from my bag.

Granted, the cane is always much more effective if it's already out and I'm using it, but sometimes pulling it from the bag as I explain things works too. I was lucky; it seemed to have the desired effect this time.

"Oh," he said, looking at the folded tube of red and white aluminum. "You can't see. Okay." Then he took a step back and allowed me to pass. But a moment later as he was following me up the steps, he said, "But I still don't believe you."

Recently, Morgan made me a copy of Jorge Luis Borges' essay, "Blindness," which was something I'd never read before. Should have, certainly, because he explains more eloquently than I ever could how it is a person can be blind and yet not live in complete darkness. He doesn't talk at all about running into people, but he makes a number of very insightful points. Points I was not about to try and explicate to the buffoon in the baseball cap. He didn't believe me? Fine. Who cares?

Still, the encounter deepened the pall cast over the day by the early-morning preachers. I stomped down the sidewalk toward the office.

At the corner of 7th and 25th, I got a mouthful of thick and oily water after a speeding delivery truck roared through a gray puddle. I felt nauseous.

Already I knew it wasn't going to be a good day. And it wasn't even 7 a.m. yet.

The next four hours were uneventful. I sat as quietly as possible at my desk, and nothing awful happened. Then I returned to the same deli as always, the same cooler. Not thinking about the events of the previous day, I pulled the door open. I heard another can topple over, and I heard the same angry hiss. Then I waited.