This morning the downtown E train was packed like I’ve never experienced before. I was sandwiched between a suit and a woman who had ants in her pants, and quite possibly an angry scorpion clinging to her under garments. It took controlled deep breathing for me to be still and not react; to not move a muscle and express the slowly growing agitation within, in one piercing cry. I did make a genteel request that the woman refrain from so much movement, to no avail.
I was so involved with my own commuter displeasure that I hadn’t noticed one of the corners of my rafe bag was stabbing the suit in the ribs! He continued to read his newspaper as if he were the only one on the train, the only one in the world, even. How did he manage that when my body was pressed up against his medium build and my handbag continually assaulted his torso? What was his secret?
His freshly-brushed-teeth breath softly caressed my left cheek. I was thankful he smelled like one of those manly sport deodorant soaps. I didn’t mind too much and forgot my angst as I replayed commercials of tall dark and handsome men lathering, rinsing and repeating. I tried to discretely sniff out the aromatic notes to the scent he was wearing. He was so calm and cool, clearly used to the pushing and shoving of commuter hell. Perhaps he was simply at ease because experience taught him that the stiff blend his suits were made of, wouldn’t crinkle in the slightest under any circumstances. He knew that once he stepped off the train, there would be no evidence of this ghastly morning routine.
Unlike that fella’s choice of clothing, the incident stayed with me many minutes beyond its occurrence. I took Exhibits A and B back to the office with me; my sweater had been pulled in two separate places. Two small loops of unsightly yarn made me cringe as I quickly looked around me to ensure no more yarn snags would happen, keeping at least a foot away from any breathing beings in the mad morning dash. You see, I was wearing a loosely knit cable Banana Republic sweater. It’s not the sort of thing one should wear in a sardine packed NYC car train.
Perfect attire for a tightly packed underground ride includes the following: synthetic blends, polyester, 100% cotton and denim. Any soft girly material like pashmina, cashmere and silk will be ruined! Gabardine and wool are appropriate armour as well, but not in a loose knit. A hard nylon is perfect, but anything fancy and you risk scratching and tearing the surface. Logo buttons should be reinforced by your dry cleaner. More than once I’ve seen Ipod wires loop around a stranger’s buttons when standing at such a close proximity. I’ve commuted to and from work in all areas of the city for many years and I can never get used to it. The assault to my senses leaves me feeling slightly battered and I am left to recover in a high rise with cool but stale air. But, at least I have my own space and it’s quiet and it doesn’t reek of urine.
The suit could have been an S/M gimp in civies, enjoying being discomforted by your bag. Dare I say, the secret to his temperance was in his pleasure at being pressed up against a woman who sort out his smell.
ReplyDeleteWhen I commuted in London (a long time ago now), I often arrived on the ward with torn tights, smudged eye shadow, and dirt stains from being pushed up against the train doors. I'd be petrified of finding a mark on my skirt, because the ward sisters were sticklers for presentation. There's definitely a knack to surviving the commute unblemished, both in body and soul.
Not more than 10 minutes after I'd written my comment, I came across this on the BBC website, on how to get off a packed train. It's a current news story here in the UK!
ReplyDeletehttp://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-11676437