I believe politeness is mandatory. I’m from Connecticut, the land of excuse me, and please and thank yous. So it’s no wonder my badminton net went up riding the train.
The number 6 was packed when I got on, but towards the back I see a space between two hulking men in athletic wear. Being so thin, Gumbyesque, I can squeeze into very small places. I smile at the two men. “I’m skinny,” I say, not wanting to crowd them, but due to a sore tendon, in great need to sit down. When a wider seat becomes available across from us, I switch out of consideration, their thighs making three of mine. “Isn’t that better?” I say, without either of them acknowledging my efforts.
A Waspy well-dressed woman eating an apple turnover with huge hips squeezes between them, so now they looked like Hanna Barbra cartoons. I can’t get over it, after moving, being half her size.
I hate people who eat on the train. I watch how crumbs fall everywhere while she’s oblivious to her mess. It’s very rude, and unless you’re a child who doesn’t know any better, no excuse for it. Took all I had not to admonish her in her Burberry raincoat and scuffed white pumps.
A young kid, ghetto pants slipping down his rear – rings, chains…a tattoo of an eagle slithering on his exposed forearm, gets up to let a man with a cane sit down. The Waspy woman and her two buff bookends don’t move, but this kid probably hailing from the bowels of the Bronx brandished manners I wish his mother could have seen.
All this time we have break-dancers entertaining us up and down the aisle. When they pass the hat, only three people reach into their pocket – me, the kid and the man with the cane.