What’s this – a seat on the train? Wow, I never get a seat on the train. It’s 5:30 pm on a Wednesday, I’m at the 23rd St. PATH, and there’s a seat available? Screw it – I’m taking it.
And why shouldn’t I? I’ve worked hard all day just like the rest of these schlubs. In fact, I bet I’ve worked harder than that Yuppity-scum over there in the Brooks Brothers with his face in the paper. It sure is cute how his coral pink shirt matches the color of his Financial Times. His wife must really hate him to dress him that funny…
By the time it gets to 23rd Street, the PATH train is normally full, so lucky me. My legs are tired, my back is sore, and I could use the rest. Blessed be St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers and thus, by default, mass transit.
But then again, is it worth it? The guy on the left looks a little weird, like he might smell funny. He’s not homeless or anything; he’s just, I don’t know, weird looking. And that princess on the right looks like a headache. I guarantee she gives some bitchy little huff the second I plop myself down – probably afraid I’ll scuff her toenail polish or outright drool on her, which explains why she’s not sitting next to weirdo over there. Too bad, I paid my train fare just like she did.
So I’ll just squeeze in and… I knew it! This guy smells like he just finished frying up some porkchops. And there goes NJ Housewife with her little sigh. You know what, I might be better off standing. But if I get back up it would be obvious I think this guy stinks, which is pretty rude. Plus I’d hate for Bridget Tunnel here to think she owns the place, so I’ll stay put.
14th Street and now the car is full. I was lucky to get this spot when I did, though apparently I’m the only one in this row who feels the need to stay within the confines of my own seat. Shake and Bake to my left is rubbing his funk all over me as he sweats through his clothes onto mine, and it appears Mariah on my right believes she paid one fare for her and another for her goddamn Kate Spade.
You know what, this older woman just got on at Ninth Street. I feel bad sitting here, a perfectly healthy young man, while this woman stands right in front of me. She’s not OLD, but she’s older, and I’d feel better about myself if she weren’t standing. Of course no one else feels bad – certainly not Pinky Brooks Brothers over there, as I’ve often found they don’t teach manners at Wharton. Weirdo to my left is in probably in a food coma and doesn’t notice, while small town girl is living in the lonely world within her iPod. I suppose it’s up to me to offer my seat.
But what if she doesn’t want it? Even worse, what if she takes it as an insult that I offer it to her? Chivalry in our society is long dead and I’d hate to come off like some ageist misogynist. Like I said, she’s not THAT old. I guess I could just pull off that whole blank stare thing that everyone else on the train has going on and forget she’s even there.
Christopher Street – St. Christopher would want me to do the right thing. So I’ll ask her, and hopefully she won’t see through the fact that I’m stuck between a lump and a hard bitch…
“Would you like a seat?”
Why is she looking at me like I just asked her to club a baby seal?
“NO!”
I knew it–now she thinks I’m an @$$#*!&…
“No, seriously – I’d prefer to stand.” That should take the sting out of my unintentional insult.
“ME TOO.”
Ugh… no good deed goes unpunished, and I’ve already announced to the entire car that I prefer to stand. If I stay here it simply compounds the awkwardness of this situation, so I guess I’d better carry it out and vacate the seat. Why do I even bother opening my mouth in public?
“Alright,” she barks as she plops herself down. It’s like feeding a wild animal – they don’t trust you at first. But that’s on her – I feel good about myself because I did the right thing. My mother should be proud that she’s raised such a fine, upstanding young man. And I’m sure every other man on this train car feels a little bit smaller for not having extended the same courtesy. Gosh, I’m such a good person…
Uh-oh, it looks like this woman either has a purse strap up her arse or just caught a whiff of Wesson oil. Either way she’s glaring at me like it’s my fault. What I wouldn’t do for an iPod and a copy of The Financial Times…
For chrissake, I’m never taking a seat on the train again — it’s not worth the hassle.
Christopher M. Halleron, freelance writer/retired bartender, writes a biweekly humor column for The Midweek Reporter. Like a well-made Manhattan, he’s stirred but never shaken. Feel free to drop him a line at chris@chrishalleron.com or follow him at http://twitter.com/HALLERON.