Kamran and I were in Hell’s Kitchen Sunday night, having traveled to the exact opposite side of the island to pour our months of collected pocket change in one of those machines that exchanges it for gift certificates. We were waiting at a bus stop with our riches in hand, staring longingly at the side-by-side 99-cent pizza and Gray’s Papaya, when a man approached with a large instrument in a case strapped to his back. We were standing just to the left of the bus shelter, leaving enough room for someone to slip past us in line if he wanted to be a jerk. But he stood behind us instead, avoiding the waist-high pile of garbage bags on our other side.
We stayed in that configuration until the bus arrived some minutes later, when the man with the instrument came out of nowhere to stand in front of me in the line of people waiting to get on the bus. I couldn’t even help myself when my blood took a sudden surge; I simply had to march around him and insert myself back into the line where I rightfully belonged. The fact that he had waited until the last second to make his move made me so much angrier than if he had just done it from the moment he came to the stop. At least then he could’ve pretended to be looking for a seat or a place to rest his instrument in the shelter.
6 Comments
Well… that seems…
almost rude of him!
;)
I’m so glad I’m not 38 weeks pregnant in NYC. Just reading about Instrument Man’s abominable behavior makes my ears ring.
You are better than everyone else, if for no other reason than you didn’t BEAT HIM UP AND CHEW HIS FACE OFF.
Remind me never to cut in front of Mrs. Bachelor Girl.
I have terrible, terrible road rage and often wonder if I’d be a happier person if I lived in a place where I could take mass transit wherever I needed to go. And then I read one of your posts. I think I’d still have rage, just different issues.
BUT, at least with mass transit you can confront the person if you want. Not that I ever probably would, but I’d like to know that I have a more satisfying option than flipping people off (where they probably can’t see), calling them names that would make a sailor blush (that they can’t hear), or honking at them (which they probably assume isn’t meant for them, and really doesn’t accurately portray my rage anyways).
This kind of thing used to happen all the time when I rode the trolley in Philly. Not sure if it’s a class (or class-less) thing, but always used to piss me off.
What Bluz said!
I hated getting cut off. Someone had the nerve to HONK at me while waiting for someone to back out of their parking space. When she got out of her car, and started to walk into Trader Joe’s where I was also going, I said, “WHERE’S THE FIRE?!” and she took her walk up to a sprint into the store.