Thursday, January 21, 2010
A crowded subway is no excuse for unprofessional conduct
So this happened the other night. Actually, I think it was Friday night, which makes this story so much richer since we were on the cusp of a 3-Day weekend and it rush-hour. The time of night where g-d willing you're not next to a creep or a mother of three. So there I am on the F Train with 300 of my closest commuters, reading a post I had printed out from one of my favorite resurfaced blogs Miss Doxie. I'm crammed in the back corner of the train, leaning up against the door that goes between the cars, minding my own business when all of a sudden GAH we're at Bergen Street! (I love when this happens, it's like time travel. But not really). I elbow my way through the passengers until I hit a road block. Literally. Some twink had decided Friday rush hour would be the perfect time to jam her wooden screen-printing door gate contraption diagonal into the last car. I am talking, there was no going around this thing. Caos ensued as I imagined being trapped on the F Train until the next stop.
Me: What the what is this
Random Man: Yeah, I know, seriously
D-bag Artist: (blank stare, most likely thinking about some theory on paying her bills with overexposed canvas and definitely not about people who actually sell their artistic souls for a living just to buy 2 buck chuck and candied pecans)
My options were to climb through the middle of this thing, risking splinters and basic stuck-ness, let the A-hole artist win and surrender to Carroll Street where I would have the same problem in addition to humiliation, or get Olympical on her ass. Luckily for everyone, I was wearing pants (I know, take a moment), so like muthafuckin lightning I hurdled the wooden torture device, propelling myself toward the closing doors. I made it out alive.