Do people who don’t wear deodorant know that they smell bad at the end of the day? A man was standing over me holding on the handbar on the subway this evening. I had to move but I was too tired to ask him about it. My mother would have asked. Once she moved her seat on the bus so that she could be next to a stranger to whom she turned and asked, “you’re such a handsome man, why do you pick your nose in public?” Now, that was a spunky (and fearless) lady.
On the way to work today, I heard a strange flushing sound. I realized it was civilization rounding the drain. Two elderly, infirm people were standing on a crowded subway (as was I) and no one offered up a seat. How do young able-bodied passengers not see the infirm or pregnant passengers? Do these young able-bodied passengers think they are themselves invisible to the righteously indignant third party observer (me)?
Of course, there are people who get up for an older, infirm or pregnant passenger. Sometimes, these people go overboard, though. Just in the last two months, two young women have offered to get up for me. Now, I have gray hair and have a few lines on my face, but I am fit AND I act like a child (ok, the latter is not that relevant). Because these two young women were so earnest, I didn’t have to heart to torture them and ask, “do you think I am pregnant?”
Actually once I got up for a younger woman who looked pregnant. Then she realized that I was older and got up for her and she asked, “do I look pregnant?” Thank G-d it was winter so I said that I wasn’t sure since she wore a bell shaped coat. Actually, it wasn’t the coat; she really did look pregnant. She was too young to have developed a beer gut but if she weren’t pregnant, it was not a pretty sight. Yes, I can be snarky even in this situation. I am not a very nice person. I knew that.
A woman who looks like a retired anthropology professor — unkempt gray hair, chino shorts, fanny pack and birkenstocks — had cobalt blue nail polish on her toes.
A man who was trying to look like Mick Jagger, Keith Richardson and Rod Stewart — impossibly skinny with the UnDead look, with form fitting bizarro clothes and lots of necklaces and sunken eyes — failed miserably.
Ok, I hate flying more than ever. Before blogging, I gave the following report via blackberry to my friends while I was in the San Franscisco airport some months ago. It was a turning point in my view of air travel as a pleasant means of getting from point A to B.
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There is a woman walking around with a pillow. A full sized pillow with a case that has a pattern of small flowers. She is our age. I see her point but I am not wearing my jammies and fluffy slippers.
Did you know that wheel chairs come in LARGE now? I wish that I could read a book but I am too uptight and stressed. All I want to do is get on that plane and drift off to sleep.
Oooohh, give me a seat boys, come free my soul, I wanna get lost in my reclining seat and drift away. Music fades.
There is a screaming child. A screaming child on a red eye. Excuse me while I throw myself onto the tarmac.
I am freezing in this airport and other people are wearing thin clothes. I know it’s California, but it was cold and wet today in San Francisco.
I have to go to the bathroom but it has probably gotten too much use today and maybe I’ll wait and be the first on the plane to use. It is a delicate balance.
Should I ask the man across the seats why he picks his nose so blatantly and then rubs his discovery on his pants? Maybe I can borrow his books. Noooooo.
Baby’s cryin’ and my patience is all gone…. Oh, S. Frisco. (As in JT’s “Mexico”).
Civilization is rounding the drain. Here is my experience from last week.
The hem of my pants fell so I was forced to staple the hem to the lining of my pants. So I am wearing a custom made jacket and pants but I am really put together by spit, scotch tape and now staples. As goes the economy, there go I.
Ooh, some nice, loud gum cracking and it is only 79th Street.
If only you knew the conversations on this bus. You’d be surprised how many kinds of macaroni and cheese a person can have in her pantry. The kind obviously matters. Apparently, one could be in the mood for let’s say Swanson’s but not Chef Boyardee. The third option was to go to the store, not for something entirely different but for a different kind of mac’n’cheese. I didn’t hear the outcome of this woman’s conversation with “Johnny” but I’ll try to remember to watch local news to find out what happened.
A young man on the bus is presenting paranoid obsessive behavior. No ability to modulate his voice. Stops in mid-sentence. Keeps talking about all of the records he is keeping about his boss’s refusal to acknowledge overtime and saying that his boss would rather kill him than pay him for five hours of overtime work. He is well-kempt and his keeps mentioning that his mom wants him to come home and live with her, so he is not alone (and he also has his not-so-sane friend who is listening to him). It is too sad for words.
Even I can’t make snide remarks. There but for the grace of G-d go I.
There is a (former) banker-type committing the inexcusable crime of cell-yell which crime is only further aggravated by the subject matter: his brother’s court date (and I don’t mean for a squash game).
There is what appears at first impression to be a couple (because they are conversing and have near identical shades of tan). But as I am rocked to and fro by the potholes, I hear the following snippet: “where did you get YOUR tan” asked he. “Central Park and a salon near me” said she. “Ahhhh” said he as our erstwhile Romeo moved slightly away to avoid further conversation.
The bus clears out somewhat at 86th Street and reveals a man with the most abominable toupe that hangs down to the tip of his oversized sun glasses. Imagine Peter Sellers (of the Pink Panther movies) in a schtick about the hapless undercover spy or a character in those early 1970s movies about the swinging singles apartment buildings.
Two men get on the bus through the back door at 96th Street. One fits the stereotype of a fare cheat; the other seems solidly middle class. If I were truly my mother’s daughter, I would sit next to each of them in turn and explain the importance of paying one’s fare.
I then came to a frightening conclusion — the mildewy smell that is mixed with pungent body odor (which has had time to ferment no doubt) is in the fabric of my seat and back rest, does NOT belong to the ever so grim man next to me. Just like the Seinfeld episode, the smell will follow me even after I disrobe. I may have to have my body dry-cleaned. It is almost sport to see how many times you can travel on a bus before you get tagged with someone else’s gross body odor. The thrill of the challenge and the agony of defeat.
Time to get off the bus.
I ducked into a place to have a seni-leisurely drink before going home because these days the subway trip is not sufficient to decompress. I figured I woul return emails from friends and tweet or draft blog entries. A gay man who was at the bar was pointedly seeking my attention by talking in my directionabout the differences in picture quality between the two TVs above the bar. Since he was talking in my direction, I looked up. He immediately slid closer to talk with me.
He kept chatting along, moving from one subject to another. But it was an insane topic-hopping. He is just an older man without family in New York whose friends have died or are enfeebled and he probably didn’t talk to anyone that day before he caught my eye. I listened and engaged in conversation for about one-half hour. Then I had to go home to my family. And I realized what a gift that is: having someone waiting at home.
I think I’ll call my dad now.
This morning my train was stopped in a station because of a sick passenger at 42nd Street. Everyone was quiet and polite when hearing the announcement. No groans about the inconvenience. People were patient and calm.
Then a local train pulled in the station and everyone started pushing each other and shoving themselves into the overcrowded train. The train conductor started to yell to people to back away from the train.
Different situation, but exactly the same people.
I’m on the M5. So far nothing totally gross to report. But then again we’re only at 59th Street. Ooh, some prospects for the freak show just got on. We’re waiting, we’re waiting . . . . A whole block and nothing. What gives? No one is on the phone uttering the immortal line, “Yeah, I’m like on the bus” or “I went to my gynecologist and . . .”. Is this NY? Is this public transportation?
Ah, a woman on her cell phone. Phew. I thought I was transported to Oz (or worse, Kansas). The previously reported contestants for the freak show disembarked without incident. Oh no, how will I handle near-gentility in a New York bus?
Ok, a man got on who could have been Bachelor No. 3 on the Dating Game or a swinging guy in a 1970s moving about a singles building complex starring Julie Newmar. Leisure suits, over-sized glasses brushed-back hair. Maybe “Love, American Style” (ok, you need to be in your 50s to remember that). Not a natural fiber on him. Phew, New York has not failed me.
Ok, Grace is raining down on me. A man who is eating salt water taffy is trying to get it out of the crevices of his teeth without using his fingers. The facial contortions are remarkable.
Ah, now more action — homeys with some neck action and attitude being bothered by everything. I best not be in their sphere of space although it always extends as far as the next person so somehow it can be inconvenient. That neck movement coupled with the facial contortions of taffy man has really made this trip interesting. “That’s right” plus a lip-smacking sound implying disgust plus a neck jerk and an eye roll.
Other important questions raised on this ride: Why do grey haired white men think they can get away without shaving for a day or two? How do women with scary nails take their metro cards out of their wallets without scratching the operative strip? How do they wipe their tooshies without creating scar tissue?
My stop. More another time.
Ok, forget what I said about subdued subway rides. A guy starts a story, in a booming voice, with, “hey, I’m not an asshole, but . . .” so I know that I don’t want to hear this. I am the accidental audience again. After only one station stop, it is clear that he is wrong. He IS an asshole. Big time. (In the interests of proper attribution, in those last two sentences, I am paraphrasing a conversation between the former president and vice president, Messrs. Bush and Cheney.)
I switched to the express train. No one has boundaries. Everything must be said in the loudest possible voice. Did I miss a revision to the basic rules of civilized society? I don’t need to hear about a child in jail or the trials and tribulations of a 20-something as she readied for a weekend in the Hamptons.
I catch a look of me in the reflection of the glass of the subway doors. I am not such a pretty picture this Friday morning. Hair didn’t dry quite right and I need to lose a few pounds to wear this outfit. So I guess I fit well into the subway scene. Hey, at least I am quiet.
I went to a women’s shoe store opening. My friend is a banker and his fiancee wanted to open a shoe store. This is his banking exit strategy (this is the guy who asked me what my law practice exit strategy was and I said “death?”). Maybe I’ll get a few deals from him before he exits so I don’t have to die at my desk. Anyway, the shoes are way too cutesy for me. His fiancee looks like Catherine Zeta Jones and wear high heeled mules to run errands on Saturdays. It was a bizarre moment when my friend who is a guy’s guy turned to me and said, “I think we only have two styles that work for you. Let me show them to you. You’re an 8?” I was afraid mightily and had to leave.