Me First

I expect it was the enormous lunch stuffed in my back pack that gave me the edge or maybe it was the Monday angst, but either way, I won.

There is a certain fellow, I like to call him “Mr. Not So Nice Guy in a Yankees Cap,” or worse things depending on my mood, but everyday he pushes in front of me to get on the train.

Raised in gentler, more mannerly climes, I expect men to defer to a lady or least not push her out of the way, but I’m pretty certain that this is a Jersey boy or a Bronx man, or from wherever they raise chubby, rude, sweaty men who don’t have manners.

He is a train runner, by that I mean he is the type who likes to start at the end of the platform and run alongside the train as it comes to a stop. Runners seem surprised by the whole process each morning and determined not to miss their golden opportunity. I am waiter; the train stops every day in the exact same place, so I pick my spot, wait there, the doors open, I enter and I am whisked magically away to work.  I suppose Hat Guy does not understand the mechanics of routine, or of waiting his turn, or of being nice. He must have been a terrible kindergartner.  

As I saw him making his sweaty run for it this morning, I thought, “not today, Bub!” and I put myself squarely in the path of his running, angling my overstuffed-backpack laden frame just perfectly, so he had to stop and wait his turn. He could hardly stand it, and he tried to squirm in front of me at the last minute, even as I was stepping onto the train from the platform. Which I don’t have to tell you is dangerous business; ohhh, it makes me steamed just thinking about it. Since I was first, I took the last open seat in the car. Sayonara Sweaty!! Laters.