The other day, I had just bought some pastries from the Financier in Grand Central and was standing against the marble column outside its doors to text Kamran a question about electrons that had just hit me when some elderly gentlemen passed by and said, “You get the prize for stupidest person! STUPIDEST PERSON!” I think he was hitting on me.
The other night, I was walking up the hill to Kamran’s apartment behind a mother and her three kids. The two oldest ones, a boy and a girl, were wearing backpacks that were almost as big as they were and were holding hands. They started lagging behind their mother and saying, “We’re too weak to go any farther!”, and the other reason I didn’t speed up and pass them is that they were Asian, which everyone knows is the most adorable brand of children. (I mean, up until a certain age, of course, when they get too precocious and start babbling nonstop about math on the bus in the loudest voices possible. Stereotypes!) At a certain point, though, they were just walking too slowly for me to maintain any distance, and as I got right behind them, my shadow fell over them, and they turned around and yelled, “KIDNAPPER!” and ran to catch up with their mom. As if I would purposely acquire children.
This morning, I had to be at work early to make nice with the sales team, so I was hungry for a seat on the bus at 7 a.m. But after helping a rather frail old woman with the ticketing machine and having her tell me how nice I am, I was eager to keep the good times rolling and let her go ahead of me to get an open spot. The only remaining option was next to a very . . . large . . . hulk . . . of a sleeping person who was taking up three-quarters of a two-seater and was allowing his or her coat to spill onto the rest.
Usually I would’ve just stood, but I really want to relax, and I almost wanted to punish this person for having the audacity to be heftier than I am. (I have issues, I know.) So I plopped right down on top of that coat and scooted myself as far into that seat as I could, not caring how uncomfortable my closeness made this person. I figured it was a woman judging by the impeccable tweed of the coat and the amount of bosom it had to take to create such a soft pillow in which conceal the lolling head, but it also smelled distinctly of men’s cologne. He or she spent most of the ride snoring, coughing, and gurgling, and all I could think about was what sort of diseases I was being exposed to and would be bringing home to my delicately-immune-systemed boyfriend, godblesshim.
At Fulton Street, a heavy arm reached across me to the metal pole on the outside of the seat in front of us, and I thought it was aa hint to me to move so the person could hoist his or herself out of the seat, but you know I wasn’t moving without an “excuse me” and a “thank you”. So I continued on with my Hunger Games (what a ripoff of The Giver and Gathering Blue, right?) and ignored the hand. When it came across me again, though, this time with an “I’m sorry”, I wondered what was up and looked over at the person.
It was a lovely older lady with the nicest smile, and she explained that she was trying to push the button to signal for a stop but that it wasn’t working. I tried the button myself to no result and suggested she try pulling on the rubber yellow tube that runs the length of the bus high against the windows. Of course she couldn’t reach it, though, because I was sitting on her coat. We had a little chuckle, and then someone hit the button in another part of the bus, so I got up, and she scooted past me with some effort and many thanks.
This is your fault, other New Yorkers! If 4/5 of you weren’t awful, I wouldn’t have to treat you all with disdain just to be sure.
