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.
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