Subway splatter

Written May 6

I went into work this morning, my face smelling of Purell. I generally keep a bottle of it handy because, in my opinion, if you're not a germaphob, living in New York will give you plenty of reasons to become one. Things were going their normal course. I got on the W, my preferred line because I can get off at the Flatiron Building, which I think is a wonderful piece of archetecture, and then I can walk through Madison Square Park on my way to the office. I've found that a minute surrounded by trees and squirrels does wonders for me before I spend the next eight hours at a computer.

So, I was on the train this morning, semi-concious, when a woman boarded holding a cane. It's the law in this city that you offer your seat to anyone elderly, disabled, pregnant, or any combination thereof (were I in charge of the MTA, I'd add "hot chick" to that list). I'd like to think that I'd offer my seat anyway, even without the law. Because when you do, people look at you with relief as if to say, "Society has not crumbled!"

I offered my seat to the woman with the cane who declined, politely. I offered it a second time just to make sure, but she patted my shoulder and said she was getting off in a couple of stops. She then stood over me and began talking. About what, I don't know. The monologue seemed like a train of thought (get it!? "Train-of-thought"!! And we're on a subway train! Har!), plus it was a very difficult to understand her. I did manage to gleam the following:

• Her birthday was in a few months
• Something something "Mike Bloomberg"
• Something something "the people in New York"
• Something something "people in uniform"
• Something something about another state
• Something something "that's OK, ha ha ha"

None of this would have been a problem, except that she had an unfortunate tendency to spit when she talked. When the first drop landed on my hand, I thought, "it's OK, this isn't anything I haven't dealt with before. Remember that teacher in 7th grade with the unpronounceable name who did this too?" But things got worse as she kept talking, and drops began to hit me in the face. I reached for the purrell, but you can't just start lathering yourself up in mid conversation, otherwise people will get angry and they'll beat you with their cane. So I smiled thinly, and counted the stops until she got off. It was then that I noticed that time seemed to warp, everything became very drawn out, the murmur of conversation slowed to a slightly satanic mumble, and movement almost ground to a halt like a very mundane version of The Matrix.


Finally, she got off, after shaking my hand (who does that?!). I wished her well. I still do. I should say something nice here, about her, so here it goes:


1. Her lipstick was applied almost without flaw
2. Nice hair
3. Thanks for the bath