The Last First Step

Today I took the first step on the last leg of a long journey, cracking open Terry Goodkind’s “Confessor” to read his 11th and final entry in the brilliant and fabulously successful Sword of Truth series.

I finished the previous novel, “Phantom,” earlier this year; it’s been about six months since I’ve read anything from Goodkind. In that time, his books and his characters sorta slipped out of my mind and soul—which I needed. Rarely have I been enraptured with novels like I’ve been with these works. Not wanting to encounter anything out of context in “Confessor,” though, I went back and reread “Phantom” this past month, and it was a much-needed refresher. Many of the important smaller details were buried under the often devastating major events in that novel (I thought, for example, the novel ended on a certain scene when there’s actually a whole other chapter afterward).

But this past week as I drew to the close of “Phantom,” that old fire started blazing anew, somewhere down where my heart meets my soul. Originally I’d planned to read “Confessor” while I’m off work during Christmas week, but now I’m wondering if the book will last that long. As I mentioned earlier this year, Goodkind’s characters have a way of sticking with me—I can envision some long days and nights of reading in my very near future.

I’m actually shocked this last novel is only 600 pages; with everything yet to be decided, I don’t know how Goodkind can possibly wrap even most of it up in those few leaves. I don’t know when I’ve ever wanted more to read the last page of a novel; that temptation will only grow stronger in the coming days, I’m sure.

I mention this here because, obviously, I’ll be reading “Confessor” on the Metro. I pondered just leaving it for home since its considerable heft makes for uncomfortable positioning on a subway train, but there’s no way I could do it; no matter what else I’d bring with me, I’d only be thinking about “Confessor” anyway, so why waste my time in denial?

So forgive me if you see me on the train and I don’t notice you. I’m a little preoccupied.

If you read Goodkind’s work, you’ll understand.

***

On a side note: For years I’ve listened to music while reading. It helps me focus, blocking out all other outside noises. This is especially true on the subway, since there’s always a chance for idle conversation nearby. Sometimes I get lucky and the music I’m listening to meshes perfectly with the text. Examples that come to mind right away are J.R.R. Tolkien and Led Zeppelin; and William Gibson and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and PJ Harvey.

For the longest time, though, I had a hard time finding music that fit with Goodkind. His images and impact are so powerful, I didn’t want the wrong albums associated with the books. Some happy accidents have occurred by necessity on Metro, though, and has led me to trust in the following albums to get me through a Goodkind-laden subway trip: AFI’s “Decemberunderground” (for its primal and all-encompassing rage), Arcade Fire’s “Funeral” and “Neon Bible” (for their ethereal otherworldliness), the Dropkick Murphys’ “The Warrior’s Code” (for its sheer power and Celtic influences, both evocative of Goodkind), and Johnny Cash’s “American V: A Hundred Highways,” for its stark beauty, pure faith, bittersweet love, and utter, unafraid strength in the face of death.

Help! I Need Somebody …

In general, riding the Metro is every man, woman, child, and elbow for themselves. EXCEPT … when a fellow traveler is in some form of distress.

It’s amazing to watch. Everybody with their heads down, eyes focused on reading material, earbuds implanted, not talking, minding their own business and expecting everyone else to do the same. And then somebody will ask for help, and help is always granted.

Typically it’s some poor tourist with one foot on the platform, one foot inside the train, door chimes chiming, asking in a shaky voice: “What line is this?” or “Is this going to Metro Center?” or “Can I get to the Smithsonian on this train?” Somebody will ALWAYS help—almost always in a nice way, too. I have yet to see someone left stranded in that doorway netherworld, and not just because I help whenever I can. Usually somebody else on the train will beat me to the punch. It’s refreshing, really, to know my fellow Washingtonians aren’t quite as scowly as they appear.

That courtesy extends beyond simple directions, though; I was reminded of this the other day on my way to work. While waiting for my Yellow Line on the lower platform at Gallery Place, the Green pulls up and announces: “This train will be holding here momentarily for a sick customer.” My first thought, I admit: “Oh, great,” because normally “sick customer” = “something more serious is going on, we just don’t want to tell you what” = “MAJOR delay.”

This time, though, the description is apt. Just a few seconds after the announcement, I’m pulled from the pages of my book by two guys saying “excuse me” with urgency. Their backs are to me, but as they approach it becomes readily apparent they have a young man under the armpits and are dragging his rather limp body away from the train and across the platform toward a nearby bench, two motherly figures in tow.

From what I overhear, seems the kid just passed out straight away while approaching the station. These two guys acted so fast, they have the fainter out of the train and on the bench before Metro personnel even arrive at the car (other riders point the first responder toward the bench). Dressed in their suits, they’re obviously on their way to work and, I’m sure, didn’t think this is how their morning would start. But they jumped in and helped immediately. The women, too; at first I think they’re related to the kid, but as the Metro guy comes over, all four of them start to fade into the crowd, their job done.

One of the women hangs around long enough to provide a brief description of what happened to the Metro employee. Then she looks back at the kid, now flat on his back on the bench but seeming to come around, and says: “You feel better, and God bless you.”

No ma’am, God bless you—and your three fellow Good Samaritans—for giving me a little bit of hope for the human race on a Monday morning.

'Peace Like a River'

Don’t get me wrong: I couldn’t survive my daily Metro trip without something to read. But there are certain times when reading a book on the subway is downright difficult—and it has nothing to do with the people around me.

Sometimes I just don’t want to put it down. I’ll be on my way to work and hit a critical, climactic point in the narrative and I just want to ride right on past King Street to the end of the line, wait for the train to turn around, and keep going, round and round.

Sometimes I’ll come across a passage that hits me hard, right where I’m most vulnerable. I’m not one for crying over popular culture (or weeping in general), but there are those moments where what I’m watching or reading reminds me of something that’s occurred or could occur in my own life, and that’s what gets to me—my real life reflected in the work. The mark of great writing. So there I am, sitting in the train, with a lump in my throat fighting off tears. The Metro is not a place for such behavior, especially sitting by yourself. That’s the stuff of freak legend.

And sometimes I’ll come to the end of a book on the train, but still have a few stops to go. That’s a disorienting situation, I can assure you, coming up for air from a particularly engrossing text only to wonder: now what do I do?

Today, all three of those things happened to me as I finished the final few chapters of Leif Enger’s remarkable 2001 novel, “Peace Like a River.”

“Peace Like a River” is the “To Kill a Mockingbird” for a new generation, and, no, I do not use that comparison lightly. Like “Mockingbird,” the novel is a first-person narrative from the perspective of a pre-adolescent child as he begins to navigate the dangerous waters of morality, loyalty, love, manhood, and, most important, his belief in God.

To say much more would be to ruin what should be an enrapturing experience as you devour these easy flowing pages. On a personal level, it touched me deeply in multiple areas, most notably my own visual disability and my seeming lifelong struggle with one simple God-related question: “Don’t you ever doubt it?”

I finished “Peace Like a River” on my way home today, somewhere around Cleveland Park—meaning several more stops until I reached my final destination. Now what was I to do? I stuck an Entertainment Weekly in my bag this morning before I left the house preparing for this very instance, but the final pages of this wondrous manuscript gripped me too tightly to deal with such fleeting subject matter as the Holiday Movie Preview.

So I turned to what often helps me in such times of spiritual and emotional portent: the music of U2. More specifically, “The Joshua Tree.” I didn’t think it possible for “Where the Streets Have No Name” to take on any more meaning for me than it already has, but “Peace Like a River” puts this song into even deeper context. I dove in, closed my eyes, leaned my head back against the hard wall of the train, and prayed as I have these many years: for God to continue to make Himself real to me, as He has so many times before when I’ve asked (even as I so stubbornly forget or become desensitized to His answers). I prayed for Him to help me answer that question, to remove my doubt—or at least keep chipping away at it. When the song ended, I did the only other thing I could think of: went back and reread some of Enger’s closing passages, trying to lock those words and images into my brain.

Yep. Today the freak on the Metro was me.

Lawyers: You Know How to Smell 'Em

I’m on my way home from work the other day when four youngish professionals get on at Pentagon City and take up residence all around me—two guys and two women.

It takes about five seconds to figure out they’re all lawyers. They exude that familiar mix of cutthroat confidence and ultra paranoia, seemingly through their pores.

The guys immediately start talking of anti-trust cases and counter suits. The tall redhead with the curly locks beside me, meanwhile, is having a rough day. The young lawyer-to-be is on her way to Connecticut to be sworn in after passing the bar. Unfortunately for her, one of her bosses finally gave her some work to do (something apparently she’s been desperate for—a chance to prove herself and earn her spurs) this afternoon, just before she’s due to leave. Canceling her trip was impossible, for obvious reasons, but now she’s worried about her rep: “Will they think I’m lazy?” “Will they give me another chance?” “Will I get blackballed before I’m even sworn in?” Nevermind the fact it doesn’t cross her mind the supervisor was essentially going to swallow her weekend whole.

These four look to be about my age, and they’re a good reminder of exactly what I never want to be. I worked late that day, but I try to make that the exception rather than the rule. This bunch looks grateful to be done on this Friday evening before 7. They have nothing to say to each other except law stuff; the other girl is so wrapped up in this business she doesn’t even realize she’s on the wrong train and has missed her stop by a wide margin (I’m talkin’ four or five stops out of touch, here). None of them look happy.

I should thank God every day for making me a writer and not a lawyer.

Up, Up, and Away

Many times in the evenings, as I walk from work to the Metro, I dream of being a son of Krypton.

The station at King Street (my stop for work) is elevated about two stories above the ground, with an open-air platform right in the heart of Old Town Alexandria. It’s the rare station where you can see exactly what’s goin’ on from a long ways out. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to enter the plaza across the street and see a train sitting up on that platform already, taunting me. Missing my Yellow Line at this end can cost me an extra 10 or 15 minutes by the time I get all the way home. It’s times like these where I wish I was Clark Kent, so I could just super-sprint or super-leap onto the platform from two hundred yards away and get right on my train. (Yes, if I could do that, technically I could just run the 18 miles home in a few minutes, but you’ll have to indulge me.)

As a result of my rather poor eyesight, it’s my theory my other senses are stronger than your average bear's. My hearing is so good, in fact, that from this plaza I can hear the Metro conductor honk his horn as he exits the tunnel about a half-mile away leading up to the King Street station (whenever trains enter and exit tunnels they beep, as a rule—seems dumb to me, but whatever). If I'm outside the station’s parking lot when I hear that sound, I’m screwed; I know there’s no way I’m catching that train. If I’m inside the parking lot and start running—literally running—I can typically power up the escalator and scoot into the train all huffing and puffing. It is really that fine a distinction; about 10 feet and a single traffic light make all the difference in my finely tuned Metro-riding world.

I’m in the parking lot today when I hear the horn, so I take off, jacket flapping like Supes’ red cape. Whoosh—I’m through turnstiles and barely break stride. And then I see it: At the bottom of the escalator, a mom wedging her child’s stroller on the steps and starting her way up. This is a big no-no; strollers do not belong here—that’s what the elevator’s for.

I can hear the train rumbling above my head like something out of a Johnny Cash song as I hit the bottom of the stairs. “Excuse me,” I say to the woman’s back.

No response. More important, no movement.

I gotta make this train, so I have no more time for pleasantries. She’s still not trying to accommodate anyone else in the slightest, mind you, right down to the fact she’s put the stupid stroller right in the middle of the steps, not even to the right side reserved for her escalumping kind. I squeeze as far to the left as I can, but at this point I don’t much care if I jostle her. And I just can’t help myself:

“That’s what elevators are for!”

I don’t pause for a reaction. Taking the steps two at a time (is there any other way?), I pound up the escalator just as the train pulls up and opens its doors. Out of breath and more than a little irritated, I flop into an empty seat. But I’ll make it home a few minutes sooner than I otherwise would have.

Totally worth it.

The Only Man in the World

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.