Ready, Steady, Petty

Detail from George Tooker

Online, we're self-righteous, judgmental, self-satisfied assholes.  In real life, we're pussycats.  I know I am anyway.  It's rare that I can't get along with a person face-to-face.  That's why I was dismayed to be reminded recently that I am capable of enmity.   There was no gestation period, so it felt like something had hatched from within my bosom in a state of full maturity, like a science fiction special effect, when I became aware of it.

The setting is the metropolitan railway system.  There are plenty of annoyances to be found here -- downsized service, upsized fares, an abundance of visiting tourists with uncanny cluelessness about train etiquette who clog escalators and block doors when you're trying to exit the train and board en masse through one door and take up 2 seats to a person as though they're as disinclined to be touched by each other as I am to be touched by them.  My personal favorite peeve: train-dancers.  These are the guys (they're nearly always guys) who can be seen, earbuds firmly plugging their earholes, who cannot contain their need to get visibly into whatever they're listening to.  You can't hear it thanks to your own ear plugging technology and a prohibition from sharing music anywhere within the subway system, but you can tell by the ostentatious expressiveness of the moves and the beatific, shit-eating grin on the train-dancer's face that it blows any paltry muzak that you've got going on in your own earphones clean out of the water.  Question: Do they know how ridiculous they look?  Also: Do they know we can see them?  One morning, I had to clear one dancer on the station platform only to be stuck next to another on the ride in.  I happened to be listening to some renaissance music at the time, which made me want to gavotte right up in the guy's face to find out how he'd like it.  But I digress.

I'm a creature of habit, so I take the same train home at the same time each night.  The first leg of the journey is three stops south on one line where I transfer to another line that will take me the rest of the way east toward home.  At the start of the first leg of my journey, I stand at the bottom of the escalator (to the left so as not to block the way at the bottom of course -- I tell you I'm not an asshole in real life!), and board the train right where it stops.  I cross the aisle and perch at the opposite doors.  These won't open until my transfer connection three stops away, but they will open at a prime spot for accessing the escalators to the line that will take me home.  I thereby yield my choice of seat to whoever needs one, preferring instead to stand ready to turn and exit when the train pulls into the connecting station for my transfer.  Until I get there, my back is close to the doors and I'm holding onto a rail for steadiness.  I've done this time and again, same train, same station every night for 3 years without a problem.  On my ride, I'll review the day's emails, read my book on my phone, and otherwise be at the ready to take down any trench-coated, overly weaponized hooligans who appear about to embark on any malarkey, mischief or other shenanigans (none yet in 30 years of commuting, knock wood!)

One day recently, I'm deep in thought over a passage in my book when I sense the cold and dark manifestation of a shadow crossing my features.  I look up and see that a tall, broad, head-shaven and goateed gentleman who boarded at the next stop has grabbed the same rail I am holding onto and is standing facing me with a dead look in his eyes.  The train is pretty empty.  There are lots of seats about and plenty of standing room for acres on either side of me, but this gentleman picks my pole to stand at and my direction to point himself in?  And close enough that I can't miss the smell of a day's worth of capitalist exploitation from his direction.  Can you blame me for taking an instant dislike?

I can't say I didn't think anything more of it when I exited the train for my transfer at the connecting station.  He after all exited on my heels.  Though he got on a different train than I did downstairs on the platform for the second train line, I did remain galled at being needlessly crowded.  But by my commute the following evening, it was no longer on my mind.  The  next night, the train arrives, I board and stand in my usual spot once again, go deep into my thoughts and moments later, once again, I find myself within that cold, dead unmistakable shadow at the next stop.  So this was how it was going to be now?

One night-- I don't remember if it was that night or the next-- I couldn't contain myself.  I found myself glowering at this towering hulk with boundary issues (with a lanyard-- obviously an IT guy, like myself).  Looking into his eyes I see virtually nothing coming back at me.  A gaping yawning maw of lifeless hell.  But I did manage to detect one tiny morsel of active "non-shit giving" being radiated at me from within the morgue of this man's soul indicating that there was an actor in there perpetrating wanton violation of my personal space.

From that moment, I swore eternal acrimony on this vile, foul demon. What had I done to deserve this kind of treatment?  Been first at the door, that's what.  In my defense, it’s the natural state of things.  The train progresses in a linear fashion, in discrete quantum steps (is it a wave or a particle? It depends on whether you consider its position or its velocity).  I happen to become one with the path it is on closer to the origin of its linear progression; when I do, the prime space is open to me, and therefore I occupy it.  When it reaches him, the space is already occupied by me. 99% of the time a normal person faced with me already in place will choose another advantageous spot accordingly and yet 100% of the time apparently, he chooses to reject my seniority by attrition, ignore my physicality and occupy it too.

This has been the state of things for weeks.  Here's the thing: more than I like habit, I dislike confrontation, so I've found myself carving out the niche within the spot that is still at the doors but farthest from where he has traditionally chosen to skulk.  I've fantasized about taking action.  I've envisioned everything from a "Now see here, good fellow!" to a shove to the solar plexus.  The pussycat in me even imagined offering a smile, striking up conversation, making him see me as a person worthy of having my boundaries respected.

But it finally occurred to me that I might take the cue from him.  Instead of pretending to ignore him, perhaps I should actually ignore him.  It's not like he's a train-dancer at least.  This might be the exception that proves whether ignoring something will make it go away.  What's the harm?  I can't really control him.  Paying attention to it isn't doing me any good.  By Jove, I think I've hit on the solution.  I'm ignoring him.

Starting now.