Beast of a Woman

This afternoon the 5 train is miserably packed like a cattle car. Not that this is out of the norm, however a horrid woman is insisting she get on even though there is obviously not a space for her. She is semi-middle aged, has caramel-colored skin and a graying funky afro. Tall and broad, she has the authoritative presence of a cover model of a 1980s feminist magazine. She decides to body slam her way in, leaving not even a millimeter of space now for anyone to breath.

To make matters worse, as we start to move Power Afro insists there is some space in the middle of the car and tries to tell everyone to move in so she won’t be squished against the door. No one even looks at her because there is clearly no place to move to. She announces she is taking matters into her own hands and tries to plow her way to where there is supposedly more room. Of course she doesn’t get more than a body or two deep. Power Afro ends up jammed next to me, squishing my rib cage until I can barely breath. I push against her because well I am not pushing against the person on the other side of me when this whole mess her fault. Power Afro tightens her body and pushes back at me. We stand against each other ass cheek to ass cheek. Thank god it is not summer as we are semi-protected by our winter coats. We are now digging up against each other in a silent power struggle. Who does she think she is? If I ever had a homicidal tendency it would be now. I really did want to rip this woman up.

She wins however as I abandon ship and squeeze off at Union Square, a stop before I really have to change over to the 6. Another day of defeat.

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Today in the afternoon rush the crowd waiting for the subway at Wall Street is several people deep as the train is running slow. It is obvious as the train finally pulls into the station that not everyone can get on. As people jostle for position a women with a small child desperately tries to get in front of the pack. Her success is brief as once the doors open she still cannot manage to get into the car. She is fights with a business man’s giant gym bag, embroidered with the name of his investment bank. When she is defeated she yanks her kid back onto the platform and begins a tirade about how the world is unfair to blacks and Hispanics to all us unlucky enough not make it into the packed car.

And so it goes

Just Another Afternoon....

On the commute home I rush down the stairs at the Wall Street stop only to be slowed by a woman wearing a ridiculous pastel pink dress that looks cross between African tribal leader and Pretty Pretty Princess. She has her hair all done up in little crazy braids that circle her forehead. Her intricate dress is so long it is dragging everywhere on the ground and getting dirty in the subway nastiness. She is going down the steps in front of me, dress slowly pulling behind her. I could so easily step on it and she would wipe out completely. Isn’t she nervous about that?

It is one of those afternoons that you have to literally fight your way onto the train. The 4 is slow coming into the Wall Street stop and as I wait the crowd of men in suits starts to grow until it finally a big gray mob. It is hot, it is smelly and everyone wants to go home. When the train finally comes it's already packed to the brim like a cattle car but everyone sees the small opportunity for a few people to squeeze in. When the doors creak open the struggle begins, elbows flying and shoulders pushing. Normally I would avoid this mess and just wait for the next train to come; however I had to be somewhere and am running late. I nudge my way on, ribs crushing against the gigantic women in front of me.

The car is so packed that I get off two stops later at Brooklyn Bridge to change to the 6 because of how unbearable it is. As I sprint across the platform into the cool openness that is the 6 train I look back at car of the 4 train I had just left. It is such a squishy mass of bodies that I am very surprised I had come out of there in one piece.

Lipstick

This morning the 5 train is absolutely packed. Not normal rush-hour crowded but cattle car- pushing -frenzy-to-get-on packed. I am so squeezed into the businessman next to me that when I turn my head slightly I accidently smear my freshly applied red lipstick across the back of his expensive-looking tailored dress shirt.

I stare at the stain long and hard, feeling like a moron. It is a very big streak, surely everyone who walks behind him today in the office will see. I hope whoever he comes home to at night doesn’t think he was with another woman when he says he really was at happy hour. Should I discreetly try to wipe it off? Since I am not one of those who carries a stick of Shout in my purse that would be nearly impossible. Should I tell him and apologize? I figure that this would only produce two results- 1) he awkwardly doesn’t really understand when I try to explain what I did to him or 2) gets aggravated at me. Neither will get rid of the lipstick mark.

I decide to do nothing.