Man. Myth. Morland.: My three least enjoyable work-related transit memories in increasing order of annoyance

Commuting home, Spring 2002: I spy a man on a platform of the 14th Street / 8th Avenue ACE/L subway station on his knees, repeatedly trying, and failing, to stand up. The main impediment to his standing is a steady stream of what I can only describe as "chunky blood" pouring from one or more of his head's orifices, creating a chunky-bloody slick on the floor tiles. The slick is evidently very slippery, as he cannot seem to keep his footing - every time he attempts to stand, whichever limb he has chosen to support the bulk of his weight slides from under him and sends him crashing to the ground again. The fall is repeatedly broken by his head. A crowd gathers, kindly recommending he "just stay down". Having obviously read his Camus, Bloodface refuses and bloodily continues his Sisyphean journey into bloodtopia. (blood)

Walking to lunch, today: Seeing a group of men moving towards me on the sidewalk, I scoot to the side as to not collide with them on my route in the opposite direction. As we pass - with space to spare - the one closest to me, who was previously ranting profanely to his companions, steps in front of me and yells in my ear, "DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT F---ING SIDE OF THE F---ING STREET TO WALK ON MOTHERF---ER? CAN YOU F---ING WALK SOMEPLACE ELSE?" He then open-hand punches me in the chest. Hard.

Why my reaction was to do nothing in each case:

Really, I couldn't think of any better advice than "just stay down" anyway, and there were at least six or seven people already telling him to do that. Plus the station attendant was within sight so I knew running to fetch the authorities was a redundant action.

What was I going to do, jump him? Publicly admonish him? This is a man who spits straight ahead in a crowded street. He is exempt from mores.

I could not envision any plausible scenario where action on my part would result in something other than a pride-obliterating and health-insurance-straining beat-down of the worst kind.

What I really would have preferred to happen, if laws and the limits of space-time were not a consideration:

Having just been endowed with mystical healing powers by a shaman on whom I played a practical joke (involving two cans of black beans and a rare albino albatross) and then helped with his taxes (long story), I calmly walk over to the suffering Bloodface. "Be at peace," I say, placing my hand on the back of his head, "all is well in the cosmos." His torrent of blood trickles to a stop, and he manages to rise to his feet and clear his face of the layers of coagulated goop, whereupon the surrounding crowd and I recognize him as federal Department of Housing and Urban Development Secretary Alphonso Jackson. In an act of gratitude, Secretary Jackson exercises the never-before-utilized executive power of X-treme Badass Eminent Domain to grant me seven city blocks in every major metropolitan area of my choosing. I flip most of it for a tidy sum, and use the money to built a series of opulent mansions. Also, the churro lady across the platform gives me some free churros.

When the chap gets to the end of the block two dozen tuberculosis patients jump out of nowhere and pretend like they're about to cough on him. When he turns his head and raises his arms to shield himself, I steal his wallet and go on a spending spree, making sure to reward my consumption-ridden cohorts with only the most fashionable face masks and iron lungs.

No change. I kinda feel bad for him. As my coworker said: "That guy's not going to make it past the age of 35." Ok, fine, maybe I'd stage an intervention or something... and give him crabs.

Posted by morland @ 07:44 PM

:: Comments ::

your three wishes are granted. please save me a churro.

Posted by: barrett on March 19, 2005 06:16 AM

yeah, but you've benn giving people crabs since 1995. it's a gift that i'll cherish forever.

Posted by: a superhero by night on March 20, 2005 11:26 AM

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