Subway fun
As she boarded the downtown A train, Joy spotted an open seat next to an old man. She did her usual quick visual and olfactorial inspection of the seat, and seeing no strange liquids or smelling foul odors, she sat.
The train left 145th Street and barreled south. Things were quiet. All was well until Joy, who only minutes earlier had been walking through Harlem in 30-degree temperatures, felt snot leaking out of her nose.
"Damnit," she thought to herself, rifling through her purse for anything that could serve as Kleenex. Nothing. But it felt like the snot was becoming visible, so she opened her mirror compact, and yes, verified that she was visibly sporting snot. Ew. She looked around to see if anyone was watching -- she was always convinced that at least one person on the train was watching her. She realized it was a race against time: She had to catch the snot before it dripped onto her scarf, frightening everyone around her.
So, she wiped her nose with her hand, as fast as possible. It only made more snot drip down.
"Shit!" she thought. So she gave her nose a long, hard squeeze and then a quick swipe. That did it, she had won. Her scarf would stay snot-free. Before she could bask in her glory, she remembered she probably had an audience. Who noticed, she wondered? She looked around, trying to feign confidence. A man and woman several seats away were looking at her, giggling. She really had no idea why, but felt pretty sure that it was because of her snotty nose.
Moments later, as Joy tried to stay busy by staring at her feet - she had of course forgotten something to read --- she noticed a small cockroach trying to cross the width of the train, an expanse of only about 3 feet. It was thankfully not headed her way, but to the 3 people seated across from her. The roach, Joy guessed, was headed to a dark hideout beneath the seats. First he had sneak by three pairs of feet. It was a daunting task, and Joy felt a bit sorry for the insect.
She watched fascinated as the roach headed left, but was quickly blocked when a man lightly pushed the roach away with his shoe. But the roach persevered, and headed back to the seats, this time in the direction of a woman two seats away from the man. She also just gently shooed him away, and again the roach persisted, heading to the woman next to her.
This woman didn’t wait a second, she violently shooed the roach - but not squashing it - until it almost slid into Joy’s shoes. What audacity, Joy thought. It was suddenly a game of roach soccer, because everyone was too pansy-ass to just simply kill the roach. Now Joy was the opposite team’s goalie and it was her turn to act - would she kill the roach or volley it back to the woman who shoved it her way?
She was feeling passive aggressive and leaning toward shoving it back, when thankfully the train stopped at 59th Street. A flood of people boarded the train, obscuring the roach, possibly killing it, possibly saving its life.
Joy was relieved that roach soccer was over. She wondered if she would make it to her destination without any more stress? Of course not. With just two or three more minutes before her stop at 34th Street, a man who had just boarded the train sat across from her. He looked normal, middle-aged, artsy. He unzipped his backpack. Instead of pulling out a book, which most train riders do, he lifted the backpack, and he put his head entirely in and made loud sniffing noises. A couple sniffs later, he lowered the backpack onto his lap. He didn’t look around, self-consciously, as Joy might have if she had such a strange habit.
Instead, he raised it again, and performed the insert-head, sniff-loudly routine five more times. At this point his antics had drawn seated subway spectators, who were curious to know if this man was mentally ill or just wild about smells. Joy reached her stop without ever knowing the answer.
The train left 145th Street and barreled south. Things were quiet. All was well until Joy, who only minutes earlier had been walking through Harlem in 30-degree temperatures, felt snot leaking out of her nose.
"Damnit," she thought to herself, rifling through her purse for anything that could serve as Kleenex. Nothing. But it felt like the snot was becoming visible, so she opened her mirror compact, and yes, verified that she was visibly sporting snot. Ew. She looked around to see if anyone was watching -- she was always convinced that at least one person on the train was watching her. She realized it was a race against time: She had to catch the snot before it dripped onto her scarf, frightening everyone around her.
So, she wiped her nose with her hand, as fast as possible. It only made more snot drip down.
"Shit!" she thought. So she gave her nose a long, hard squeeze and then a quick swipe. That did it, she had won. Her scarf would stay snot-free. Before she could bask in her glory, she remembered she probably had an audience. Who noticed, she wondered? She looked around, trying to feign confidence. A man and woman several seats away were looking at her, giggling. She really had no idea why, but felt pretty sure that it was because of her snotty nose.
Moments later, as Joy tried to stay busy by staring at her feet - she had of course forgotten something to read --- she noticed a small cockroach trying to cross the width of the train, an expanse of only about 3 feet. It was thankfully not headed her way, but to the 3 people seated across from her. The roach, Joy guessed, was headed to a dark hideout beneath the seats. First he had sneak by three pairs of feet. It was a daunting task, and Joy felt a bit sorry for the insect.
She watched fascinated as the roach headed left, but was quickly blocked when a man lightly pushed the roach away with his shoe. But the roach persevered, and headed back to the seats, this time in the direction of a woman two seats away from the man. She also just gently shooed him away, and again the roach persisted, heading to the woman next to her.
This woman didn’t wait a second, she violently shooed the roach - but not squashing it - until it almost slid into Joy’s shoes. What audacity, Joy thought. It was suddenly a game of roach soccer, because everyone was too pansy-ass to just simply kill the roach. Now Joy was the opposite team’s goalie and it was her turn to act - would she kill the roach or volley it back to the woman who shoved it her way?
She was feeling passive aggressive and leaning toward shoving it back, when thankfully the train stopped at 59th Street. A flood of people boarded the train, obscuring the roach, possibly killing it, possibly saving its life.
Joy was relieved that roach soccer was over. She wondered if she would make it to her destination without any more stress? Of course not. With just two or three more minutes before her stop at 34th Street, a man who had just boarded the train sat across from her. He looked normal, middle-aged, artsy. He unzipped his backpack. Instead of pulling out a book, which most train riders do, he lifted the backpack, and he put his head entirely in and made loud sniffing noises. A couple sniffs later, he lowered the backpack onto his lap. He didn’t look around, self-consciously, as Joy might have if she had such a strange habit.
Instead, he raised it again, and performed the insert-head, sniff-loudly routine five more times. At this point his antics had drawn seated subway spectators, who were curious to know if this man was mentally ill or just wild about smells. Joy reached her stop without ever knowing the answer.