When I arrive at my station in the morning, there’s a spot where I can look down to the lower platform and see if my train has arrived. The other day on my way to work, I look down and, sure enough, there’s my train with its doors already open. Bad sign. Gotta move. Right. Now.
My flight down the escalator isn’t quite as fast as I’d like it to be for two reasons: 1. It’s raining out and the steps are a little slick; getting to work on time is not worth cracking my skull. 2. There’s a guy already on the stairs when I start down, so I have to slow up a little and fall in behind him; I can’t speed past him at this pace without risking a collision.
The door chime buzzes as I hit the bottom, Mr. Gray Suit still in front of me. He moves with respectable quickness, I guess, me right on his heels. But as he crosses the threshold of the train car, he just … stops. Stops! Right on the other side of the doorway, like he’s the only man in the world trying to catch a train this morning.
See, you have to keep moving in these beat-the-doors situations, because there’s always someone behind you trying the exact same thing. These Metro doors are unforgiving—they ain’t kindly elevator barriers, not them. When they close, they close, with extreme prejudice.
By all rights, I should keep going full-force and obliterate this guy like Mike Sellers against a Detroit Lions defensive back. Instead, I pull up ever so slightly to allow him another moment to get out of the way, then squeeze through the closing doors like the Millennium Falcon escaping that asteroid worm. In true Han Solo fashion, I don't make it without incurring some damage, crashing into the right-hand door as I slip through.
“Thanks, jerk,” I mutter in his general direction, seething and holding my throbbing right arm. But he’s clueless through and through. Upon hearing my invective, he turns to me with the biggest, dumbest, most vacant what? face you’re ever likely to see. He has absolutely no idea what just happened, and there’s no chance he’ll ever figure it out, even if I drew him a diagram. I figure there’s a certain kind of honesty about that and go find a seat.
As far away from him as possible—for his own good.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Twin Troublemakers Only a Mother Could Love
I’m on my way to work the other day when a young mother hustles and bustles her two little kids onto the train at L’Enfant Plaza. A boy about 4—his name’s Jeremiah, I later learn—and a girl no more than 2; matching jumpsuits to boot.
Mom has the girl in her arms and directs the boy to the seat next to me. As Mom sits down, the girl’s foot swings past me and brushes my leg. “Watch your feet,” Mom tells the girl. “Tell the nice man you’re sorry.”
My eyes shift. The little one’s not sorry. Not in the least.
Instead, she takes another swing at me, grinning broader than you’d think her perfect round face could spread. Mom fusses again. Daughter smiles and this time adds a delighted cackle.
After the third swipe at my leg, Mom finally puts her daughter’s foot in a vice grip and apologizes once again. Unfortunately for me, the positioning of the girl’s legs means she’s tilted forward a bit, which only encourages her to reach five pudgy little digits toward the edge of my magazine. “No,” Mom says. “You can’t have that. That’s his book.” She makes another run at it while Mom fusses with Jeremiah’s juice cup (“You’re not thirsty, you’re just playin’, aren’t you?”), but Mom stops the little girl just in time.
By this time the train has started to empty out, and the kids desperately want to get out of their seats. I understand this perfectly. I didn’t sit down in a Metro seat until I was at least in double-digits; this is why I never give up my spot to a kid—the last thing on this planet they want is to sit down.
Mom tells both of them to hold onto the pole, but this lasts for all of about five seconds. The little girl waits for the train to start moving and uses that momentum to propel her toward the other end of the car faster than her tiny legs would carry her otherwise. You’ve never seen a woman move so fast; Mom was up off that seat and had the little one in her arms in an eye-blink. The girl tries again—unsuccessfully—at the next stop, this time going for the open doors.
Mom has them both corralled for the moment when it’s my turn to get up. “Good luck,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she says with a grin that’s one-third beleaguered, one-third grateful for the acknowledgment of her plight, and one-third radiating with absolute and complete love for her two troublemakers in matching jumpsuits.
Sometimes, you know, riding the Metro ain’t half bad.
Mom has the girl in her arms and directs the boy to the seat next to me. As Mom sits down, the girl’s foot swings past me and brushes my leg. “Watch your feet,” Mom tells the girl. “Tell the nice man you’re sorry.”
My eyes shift. The little one’s not sorry. Not in the least.
Instead, she takes another swing at me, grinning broader than you’d think her perfect round face could spread. Mom fusses again. Daughter smiles and this time adds a delighted cackle.
After the third swipe at my leg, Mom finally puts her daughter’s foot in a vice grip and apologizes once again. Unfortunately for me, the positioning of the girl’s legs means she’s tilted forward a bit, which only encourages her to reach five pudgy little digits toward the edge of my magazine. “No,” Mom says. “You can’t have that. That’s his book.” She makes another run at it while Mom fusses with Jeremiah’s juice cup (“You’re not thirsty, you’re just playin’, aren’t you?”), but Mom stops the little girl just in time.
By this time the train has started to empty out, and the kids desperately want to get out of their seats. I understand this perfectly. I didn’t sit down in a Metro seat until I was at least in double-digits; this is why I never give up my spot to a kid—the last thing on this planet they want is to sit down.
Mom tells both of them to hold onto the pole, but this lasts for all of about five seconds. The little girl waits for the train to start moving and uses that momentum to propel her toward the other end of the car faster than her tiny legs would carry her otherwise. You’ve never seen a woman move so fast; Mom was up off that seat and had the little one in her arms in an eye-blink. The girl tries again—unsuccessfully—at the next stop, this time going for the open doors.
Mom has them both corralled for the moment when it’s my turn to get up. “Good luck,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she says with a grin that’s one-third beleaguered, one-third grateful for the acknowledgment of her plight, and one-third radiating with absolute and complete love for her two troublemakers in matching jumpsuits.
Sometimes, you know, riding the Metro ain’t half bad.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
She Will Sing Loud, She Will Sing Proud: Does that Make Her Craaaaazy?
I’m on my way to work the other day and I start to hear a thumping from my right, near the door. I steal a glance at the woman standing in the doorway with her back to me, thinking she’s bumping the partition next to my seat. A second look confirms it: Nope, not her.
After a few more pages, the thumping is still going on. I lean forward a little and see a person’s foot tapping in rhythm. Hmm. They must be tapping really hard to be making that much noise. I try it with my own foot (of considerable size) and can’t come close to duplicating the sound.
Once the woman standing in the doorway leaves, I finally discover what it is: A woman sitting on the other side of the doorway is using her hand to pound a beat on the glass partition. Annoying, yes, but bearable. I go back to reading.
And then the singing starts.
“The Lord is RISEN! The Loooord is riiiisen!” [guttural, unintelligible mumbling] “He is RISEN! The Looooord is riiiiiiiiseeeeeen!”
Lady, I believe He’s risen, too, but singing on a Metro train at 8:45 in the morning may not be the best way to spread the Good News. In fact, it’s probably the worst possible thing you can do, because you look and sound like a crazy person. People like you give people like me a bad name.
Singing aloud on the subway is, unfortunately, not as rare an event as you may think; it’s just rare for someone to be doing so and not seem like a loon.
This woman is not an exception.
As I walk past toward the doors I sneak a glance at her and realize she isn’t singing along to an iPod, as is the norm. Instead, she’s going a cappella and caterwauling into a cell phone, all the while continuing to maintain a steady beat on the partition. I hope the person on the other end of that line is enjoying this more than those of us lucky enough to be observing live and in person.
My stop’s up next, praise the Lord.
After a few more pages, the thumping is still going on. I lean forward a little and see a person’s foot tapping in rhythm. Hmm. They must be tapping really hard to be making that much noise. I try it with my own foot (of considerable size) and can’t come close to duplicating the sound.
Once the woman standing in the doorway leaves, I finally discover what it is: A woman sitting on the other side of the doorway is using her hand to pound a beat on the glass partition. Annoying, yes, but bearable. I go back to reading.
And then the singing starts.
“The Lord is RISEN! The Loooord is riiiisen!” [guttural, unintelligible mumbling] “He is RISEN! The Looooord is riiiiiiiiseeeeeen!”
Lady, I believe He’s risen, too, but singing on a Metro train at 8:45 in the morning may not be the best way to spread the Good News. In fact, it’s probably the worst possible thing you can do, because you look and sound like a crazy person. People like you give people like me a bad name.
Singing aloud on the subway is, unfortunately, not as rare an event as you may think; it’s just rare for someone to be doing so and not seem like a loon.
This woman is not an exception.
As I walk past toward the doors I sneak a glance at her and realize she isn’t singing along to an iPod, as is the norm. Instead, she’s going a cappella and caterwauling into a cell phone, all the while continuing to maintain a steady beat on the partition. I hope the person on the other end of that line is enjoying this more than those of us lucky enough to be observing live and in person.
My stop’s up next, praise the Lord.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Three Little Tramps and the Big Bad Wolves Who Flirt with Them
I’m on my way home the other day, and when I sit down in my Red Line train I dive immediately into my bag to pull out the iPod. I actually don’t use my iPod that much on the subway (there’s a whole music-mood-must-match-book-theme thing there I won’t get into—for now). Typically the only time I use it is when there are obnoxious people about. You know, the people that actually want to talk. Out loud. During rush hour. When all of us working joes just want to get home as fast as possible in as much peace and quiet as possible.
So when I step on the train and see three girls on the seats across the aisle from me, I know this is an earbuds-required trip. They’re virtually clones: No more than 14 years old, going on no less than 18. Same hairstyle. Same tight-fitting, low-cut baby doll tees. Same jeans-and-sandals combination. And, unfortunately, same volume.
As I mentioned a minute ago, Metro during rush hour is typically a quiet affair. So when two people are conversing, it’s noticeable and distracting. When three teenage girls are apparently using flashcards to study for an exam, the racket becomes downright intolerable.
The only thing less tolerable, however, is the middle-aged guy who, a few stops later, decides he’s gonna turn on the charm as he gets ready to disembark, just to see if he still has it, apparently. I’m talkin’ late 30s, early 40s here. As he slides by them on his way to the door, he looks down at the girls and then sorta shuffles, putting his weight on first one foot then another like he can’t even believe it himself that he’s about to put his thing down for these little tramps-in-training.
The Queens of the Stone Age pumping through my ear canals and into my brain prevents me—thank goodness—from hearing exactly what the guy says. But I think the girls must be struggling over an answer that he ever so suavely provides. Or maybe he’s correcting an error or something. All I know is when he actually leans over toward one of them to, ahem, point out something on the flashcard, all three look up at him slightly aghast and cringe ever so subtly back into their seats in a what’s-this-creep-talking-to-us-for kinda way.
The only thing worse than that, I guess, is the old guy to my right who’s watching this whole abominable scenario unfold and, knowing exactly what’s going on, utters a guttural chuckle of approval for his fellow cretin.
And the only thing worse than that is the middle-aged woman sitting a row behind the girls who looks over their shoulders with an approving little nod-and-smile combo, like she thinks this guy is actually trying to help and oh isn’t he so nice and aren’t these girls so cute.
I should have waited for the next train.
So when I step on the train and see three girls on the seats across the aisle from me, I know this is an earbuds-required trip. They’re virtually clones: No more than 14 years old, going on no less than 18. Same hairstyle. Same tight-fitting, low-cut baby doll tees. Same jeans-and-sandals combination. And, unfortunately, same volume.
As I mentioned a minute ago, Metro during rush hour is typically a quiet affair. So when two people are conversing, it’s noticeable and distracting. When three teenage girls are apparently using flashcards to study for an exam, the racket becomes downright intolerable.
The only thing less tolerable, however, is the middle-aged guy who, a few stops later, decides he’s gonna turn on the charm as he gets ready to disembark, just to see if he still has it, apparently. I’m talkin’ late 30s, early 40s here. As he slides by them on his way to the door, he looks down at the girls and then sorta shuffles, putting his weight on first one foot then another like he can’t even believe it himself that he’s about to put his thing down for these little tramps-in-training.
The Queens of the Stone Age pumping through my ear canals and into my brain prevents me—thank goodness—from hearing exactly what the guy says. But I think the girls must be struggling over an answer that he ever so suavely provides. Or maybe he’s correcting an error or something. All I know is when he actually leans over toward one of them to, ahem, point out something on the flashcard, all three look up at him slightly aghast and cringe ever so subtly back into their seats in a what’s-this-creep-talking-to-us-for kinda way.
The only thing worse than that, I guess, is the old guy to my right who’s watching this whole abominable scenario unfold and, knowing exactly what’s going on, utters a guttural chuckle of approval for his fellow cretin.
And the only thing worse than that is the middle-aged woman sitting a row behind the girls who looks over their shoulders with an approving little nod-and-smile combo, like she thinks this guy is actually trying to help and oh isn’t he so nice and aren’t these girls so cute.
I should have waited for the next train.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Roller Bag of Death
I often carry a rolling briefcase to work—you know, the thing that looks like a mini piece of luggage with two wheels and a long handle. In the cramped conditions of a Metro train, I always push the big handle down and just hand-carry the bag to make it less unwieldy.
Unfortunately, others do not follow this example.
The other day on my way home, I’m sitting on the Yellow Line in my usual spot, doing my usual thing, when all of the sudden I experience a jarring blow to my right kneecap, accompanied by an audible thump and shooting pain. I look up to see a woman flailing a rolling briefcase around by a fully extended handle, like she’s carrying a hanging clothes bag instead of a 20-pound cudgel. Needless to say, in the crush of passengers piling on at Pentagon City, she lost control of it as she swung around the center pole, racing and clambering toward a seat opposite me, and my knee took a direct hit from a wheel.
She gives me one of those little sub-vocalized “sorrys” ubiquitous on Metro during rush hour.
No problem, lady. It’s just my knee. I have two. It’ll only bruise a little. But … WHAT ARE YOU THINKING WAVING THAT THING AROUND LIKE THAT?!?!
I don’t share my thoughts, of course, not wanting to cause a mini-riot with a person so obviously inclined to use her bag as a weapon. Instead I proffer the typical non-committal head bob, which means something between “you’re a complete moron and I’m only accepting your worthless apology out of social obligation” and “don’t worry, it happens all the time.”
Which, of course, it does.
sigh
A few minutes later I limp up the escalator toward my connecting train.
Unfortunately, others do not follow this example.
The other day on my way home, I’m sitting on the Yellow Line in my usual spot, doing my usual thing, when all of the sudden I experience a jarring blow to my right kneecap, accompanied by an audible thump and shooting pain. I look up to see a woman flailing a rolling briefcase around by a fully extended handle, like she’s carrying a hanging clothes bag instead of a 20-pound cudgel. Needless to say, in the crush of passengers piling on at Pentagon City, she lost control of it as she swung around the center pole, racing and clambering toward a seat opposite me, and my knee took a direct hit from a wheel.
She gives me one of those little sub-vocalized “sorrys” ubiquitous on Metro during rush hour.
No problem, lady. It’s just my knee. I have two. It’ll only bruise a little. But … WHAT ARE YOU THINKING WAVING THAT THING AROUND LIKE THAT?!?!
I don’t share my thoughts, of course, not wanting to cause a mini-riot with a person so obviously inclined to use her bag as a weapon. Instead I proffer the typical non-committal head bob, which means something between “you’re a complete moron and I’m only accepting your worthless apology out of social obligation” and “don’t worry, it happens all the time.”
Which, of course, it does.
sigh
A few minutes later I limp up the escalator toward my connecting train.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Gimme Some Space, Mr. Widestance
I’m a tall guy, and I try my best to mind my surroundings. I can’t help occasionally running over a kid here or there, but I do my best. This is particularly important on the Metro, where there isn’t much room to begin with, even without a bunch of people jamming into a train.
In other words, I maintain cushion integrity. Just like when you were a kid and established a DMZ between you and your sibling (enforced by a piece of tape, of course), I keep my legs within the invisible boundary of my Metro seat, defined by the point at which the two cushions meet. Unfortunately, my subway-riding brethren often don’t follow the same rules.
The other day I was on my way home, peacefully reading and minding my own business, when this dude flops down into the open seat next to me—plus some. I look down and cannot see even a hint of the cushion DMZ. What’s worse, his legs are spread far enough apart that his left leg is touching my right. I realize this is a more comfortable position than holding the knees together, but he is clearly violating my national airspace.
In the post-Larry-Craig-in-a-Minnesota-airport-bathroom era in which we live, I guess he could be hitting on me; more likely, though, he’s just your average inconsiderate male Metro rider, of which I am quite familiar.
Regardless, I scoot over as far as I can and say nothing—he’s even bigger than me, and half a seat is still better than standing up.
In other words, I maintain cushion integrity. Just like when you were a kid and established a DMZ between you and your sibling (enforced by a piece of tape, of course), I keep my legs within the invisible boundary of my Metro seat, defined by the point at which the two cushions meet. Unfortunately, my subway-riding brethren often don’t follow the same rules.
The other day I was on my way home, peacefully reading and minding my own business, when this dude flops down into the open seat next to me—plus some. I look down and cannot see even a hint of the cushion DMZ. What’s worse, his legs are spread far enough apart that his left leg is touching my right. I realize this is a more comfortable position than holding the knees together, but he is clearly violating my national airspace.
In the post-Larry-Craig-in-a-Minnesota-airport-bathroom era in which we live, I guess he could be hitting on me; more likely, though, he’s just your average inconsiderate male Metro rider, of which I am quite familiar.
Regardless, I scoot over as far as I can and say nothing—he’s even bigger than me, and half a seat is still better than standing up.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Can’t You Wait Until You Get to the Office You Coffee-Sipping Yuppie?
The other day I was on my way to work on the Red Line and my longtime nemesis sits down on the adjacent front-facing seat. He doesn’t know he’s my enemy, of course, nor the fact that I’ve sworn a blood oath to scorn anyone who uses those damnable sippee thermos/mugs to drink their coffee.
I don’t drink coffee. It’s disgusting, tastes like dirt, makes your breath stink, and turns your teeth nasty colors. I’ll grant it smells good, but the latter nowhere near makes up for the former.
I don’t mind coffee drinkers in general, though, except the aforementioned thermos-sipping-yuppie types. This guy is one of them. Perfect little black thermos with its perfect little black handle so he can hold his elbow out at that perfect angle and take his perfect little sips. And I get a nostril full of aroma after every perfect little sip. It’s hard to concentrate on my book because I’m dreaming of how I’ll unleash my fury if for some reason the train stops short and his scalding brown water ends up in my lap.
“That’s why they don’t allow drinks on the Metro you MORON!!!”
“Your cute little thermos isn’t spill-proof after all, huh?”
“Why can’t you drink coffee like a man?!?!”
Lucky for him, he gets off a few stops later.
I don’t drink coffee. It’s disgusting, tastes like dirt, makes your breath stink, and turns your teeth nasty colors. I’ll grant it smells good, but the latter nowhere near makes up for the former.
I don’t mind coffee drinkers in general, though, except the aforementioned thermos-sipping-yuppie types. This guy is one of them. Perfect little black thermos with its perfect little black handle so he can hold his elbow out at that perfect angle and take his perfect little sips. And I get a nostril full of aroma after every perfect little sip. It’s hard to concentrate on my book because I’m dreaming of how I’ll unleash my fury if for some reason the train stops short and his scalding brown water ends up in my lap.
“That’s why they don’t allow drinks on the Metro you MORON!!!”
“Your cute little thermos isn’t spill-proof after all, huh?”
“Why can’t you drink coffee like a man?!?!”
Lucky for him, he gets off a few stops later.
Let the Chips Fall Where They May
The other day I was on my way home from work, nestled comfortably in one of the little one-seats next to the partition near the rear door of my car. These are my favorite seats, because there’s absolutely no way someone can sit next to me, I get both the armrest on one side and the partition on the other to support my arms while reading, and I still get to sit sideways and avoid any possibility of motion sickness.
Perfect unless, of course, a huge fat man sits down in the forward-facing seat next to me and starts eating a bag of chips.
I cannot stand people who dare to eat on Metro. The Metro Authority sets a strict no-eating-or-drinking rule accompanied by a major fine ($250, I think). Unfortunately, I have yet to see one of these fines enforced; I yearn for the opportunity like Dane Cook looks forward to seeing somebody get hit by a car. The rule is a good one, because the reason D.C. has the best subway system in the country is because people aren’t allowed to eat three meals a day on the trains like the stinkin’ New Yorkers do. Thus the trains stay clean and, most importantly, rodent and insect free. So when somebody’s eating on my train, it pisses me off.
This guy is even worse, though, because it's a bag of chips making a bunch of noise—both the bag and the gnashing. Even WORSE: He keeps eating the chip crumbs falling on his huge stomach.
And then he does one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen on the Metro: When a chip crumb falls on the seat next to him, he picks it up and pops it into his mouth.
Tourists.
Perfect unless, of course, a huge fat man sits down in the forward-facing seat next to me and starts eating a bag of chips.
I cannot stand people who dare to eat on Metro. The Metro Authority sets a strict no-eating-or-drinking rule accompanied by a major fine ($250, I think). Unfortunately, I have yet to see one of these fines enforced; I yearn for the opportunity like Dane Cook looks forward to seeing somebody get hit by a car. The rule is a good one, because the reason D.C. has the best subway system in the country is because people aren’t allowed to eat three meals a day on the trains like the stinkin’ New Yorkers do. Thus the trains stay clean and, most importantly, rodent and insect free. So when somebody’s eating on my train, it pisses me off.
This guy is even worse, though, because it's a bag of chips making a bunch of noise—both the bag and the gnashing. Even WORSE: He keeps eating the chip crumbs falling on his huge stomach.
And then he does one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen on the Metro: When a chip crumb falls on the seat next to him, he picks it up and pops it into his mouth.
Tourists.
No, Excuse ME, Ma’am
The other day I was on my way to work, transferring at Gallery Place from Red to Yellow. As I start down the stairs, I see a huge woman escalumping and taking up more than her fair share of a step—not only is she rather wide, but her purse is bouncing on her left hip, making her profile that much harder to dodge.
She has earbuds in, so there’s no use in trying an “excuse me”; I just turn sideways and slide past her. Almost, I guess. Though I don’t feel a thing, I must nudge her ever so gently because as I hustle down the steps I hear a loud “excuuuuuuse meeee!” from over my shoulder. I don’t respond—discretion being the better part of valor and all (or not wanting to feed the beast).
A minute later I’m leaning on the phone booth, reading. A minute after that, I feel a bump on my left side and glance up from the pages just in time to see the woman walk past me—eyes straight ahead, earbuds still implanted. Apparently she must have been real, real interested in the underside of that escalator, because otherwise there’s no logical reason for her to be going where she’s going. The illogical reason, of course, is that she came all this way around the platform just to: 1. Find me, and 2. Bump me.
I chuckle and keep reading.
She has earbuds in, so there’s no use in trying an “excuse me”; I just turn sideways and slide past her. Almost, I guess. Though I don’t feel a thing, I must nudge her ever so gently because as I hustle down the steps I hear a loud “excuuuuuuse meeee!” from over my shoulder. I don’t respond—discretion being the better part of valor and all (or not wanting to feed the beast).
A minute later I’m leaning on the phone booth, reading. A minute after that, I feel a bump on my left side and glance up from the pages just in time to see the woman walk past me—eyes straight ahead, earbuds still implanted. Apparently she must have been real, real interested in the underside of that escalator, because otherwise there’s no logical reason for her to be going where she’s going. The illogical reason, of course, is that she came all this way around the platform just to: 1. Find me, and 2. Bump me.
I chuckle and keep reading.
Watch Your Step, Kid
The other day I was on my way home, transferring at Gallery Place from Yellow to Red. As I walk off the Yellow downstairs and head for the “up” escalator, I see two little kids in my way. They’re playing at the bottom, letting the moving stairs carry them up a few feet before running back down, kinda like a reverse stepper.
I decide they’re gonna get out of my way. That’s my escalator, not theirs. As I stalk toward them, the kid on the right glances up at me (way up), and hesitates for a heartbeat.
This proves his undoing. He misses a step, loses his balance, and—whack!—faceplants into the metal stairs. I step over his sprawled limbs, barely breaking stride.
His gaggle of little friends laughs uproariously.
I decide they’re gonna get out of my way. That’s my escalator, not theirs. As I stalk toward them, the kid on the right glances up at me (way up), and hesitates for a heartbeat.
This proves his undoing. He misses a step, loses his balance, and—whack!—faceplants into the metal stairs. I step over his sprawled limbs, barely breaking stride.
His gaggle of little friends laughs uproariously.
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