By Friday night I was ready to move. Pack it all up and head somewhere where I didn’t have to rely on the subway to get me where I needed to go. Let me tell you why.
I was thick in the onset of a cold when I left work Friday. My throat was doing that awful, sore, stingy thing it does right before your whole body gets hit with aches and your nose starts to run and then you wind up like the little kid in the commercial, pointing at your nostrils, saying “this one works and this one doesn’t.”
Of course, since it was Friday, the trains were out of control when I left work. There’s nothing I like better than jamming myself onto a train full of people who are so self-important that they can’t move 1/2″ to the left, even though it would benefit everyone around them. Despite this, I managed to find myself a spot where I could actually read my book and still hold on to one of the vertical poles. I’m short and I can’t really reach the horizontal poles but that never seems to bother the tall people who shove me out of the way of the only poles I can reach.
But I digress.
So I’m standing there, holding on to the pole, reading my book. This guy gets on and gets into the spot against the middle doors and by the pole. You know the one I’m talking about. So anyway, he’s standing there and then he reaches to grab the pole I’m holding on to. First of all, he relinquishes his pole holding rights when he takes a leaning spot on the train. Second of all, he had raging B.O. This was hugely offensive to everyone near him. And, it was, you know, gross.
So we stop and some people get up and I grab a seat. Now I’m sitting right in front of where I was just standing. So smelly man is next to me. His raised arm, still unneccessarily reaching for the pole, is still omitting that stink. I try to ignore it and I go back to my book.
Then, all of a sudden, someone’s finger is stroking my forehead. STROKING MY FOREHEAD?! Are you kidding me? You’ve GOT to be kidding me, right? WRONG! It’s smelly man. Smelly man has just stroked my forehead. I looked up at him, kind of a “what the hell is wrong with you!?” face and his response:
Uh…sorry?! Really? That’s it? That’s the best you can offer after you’ve just grazed my forehead like that? You are creepy and wrong, sir. Creepy and wrong.
I managed to survive the rest of the train ride (with the exception of an old man nearling nailing me in the face with his laptop bag) and stepped off at 96th street. As I was walking up the stairs, I was acutely aware of a purse swinging dangerously close to my face. To avoid getting slapped with a hand bag, I passed the girl carrying it. Apparently, she took offense to that. How do I know? Well, she rammed the full turnstile so hard into the back of my foot that I really thought she broke my heel.
When I turned around, mid-“SON OF A BITCH”, and glared at the bitch, she gave me this look like “what?” I wanted to cuss her out but my foot was in so much pain that I knew if I need to run after I cussed her out, I wouldn’t be able to do it. Instead, I took the high road and whipped out my cell phone to call someone, anyone, and say immediately into the phone that “some heinous bitch whipped me in the face with her purse and then broke my foot b/c she was in such a damn hurry to get home to crap-ass apartment” and other super mature things.
No one answered.
I suppose this is for the best, but as I limped home, cursing her up and down in my head (and under my breath occasionally when I could see her passing me or falling behind me, which was when I muttered things like “I hope you get hit by a bus”–there’s a lot of that going around lately) all I wanted was to have full mobility and someone to whine (very vocally) to on the phone.
Well, that and to live someplace where I knew my commute would NEVER include someone stroking my forehead.
I mean, I can’t be the only one these things happen to…