An Open Letter To The Guy Next To Me On the Train
22 Feb 2007
To: TIM (no, Tims, not either of you. a third, entirely different Tim)
From: Mixer2435
Re: You Suck
Dear TIM,
You didn't introduce yourself, but the fact that everything you owned when you sat down next to me had your name-- "TIM" emblazoned all over it tipped me off to your name. At first, when you sat down and your man-purse had one of those generic "Hello My Name Is---TIM " stickers on it, I thought it was a joke. After all, you looked like a normal semi-hip semi-professional. But no, I soon realized, since when you began digging through your man-purse, I noticed your books, iPod, notebooks, planner--everything had TIM written all over it. Almost as if you needed constant reminders of your own name. This, TIM, should have been my first clue.
As you began elbowing me in your frantic search through your man-purse, I actually had a moment somewhere in the 4-Alarm Annoyance you provoked to allow my native curiosity to take hold for a moment. What, TIM, were you looking for? As your copy of "The Catcher in the Rye", or as it appeared on your copy thanks to a careful adjustment with a Sharpie "The Catcher in the RyeTIM" hit the floor, I thought about the possible causes of the spastic display I was being forced to sit through.
I don't know when, but sometime after you dredged up a Speedo from your man-purse (of, course, clearly labeled TIM in order to deter potential Speedo-thieves) the whole thing started to take on the aspect of a deranged Mary Poppins searching for her favorite lamp.
Your cell phone came out of your man-purse and hopped on to your lap. Curiously, it lacked a nametag. Then it flipped over and there was TIM scrawled on the battery cover. Vaguely, I hoped that perhaps you were allergic to something and were frantically searching for your epi-pin--your last hope at surviving your attack and avoiding dying horribly in front of the Rush Hour Crowd. You'd be dead and I'd have a perfect excuse to not be at work today.
Alas.
Finally your search ended. A waxed paper sack as big as my head. It's still a mystery to me how you lost the sack in the first place. You reached into the sack and began cramming a muffin into your mouth by handfuls, Cookie-Monster style. Crumbs flew everywhere as the old Asian lady across the aisle stared aghast at you. Classy, TIM. Real Classy. You filthy bastard.
Die in a Fire,
Mixer2435