I should have known all my bags wouldn’t fit through that tiny space; I should have known trying to squeeze the bags through would break the straps on 2 of them; I should have known all my Victorian Secrets would be revealed to the world once those straps broke free; I should have known some creepy guy would swipe my $20 unmentionables and bolt into the station; I should have known that crawling under the turnstile to grab the runaway garments would void my initial entry; I should have known the MTA officials would give me a hard time about jumping back over to avoid paying a second time.
I was walking up Third Avenue to catch the uptown train on 59th street. There was a frigid chill in the air, and I pulled the neck of my jacket closer to ward off the wind. It was 5 o’clock in the evening, so most of the street vendors were gone. The remnant were packing their hallal carts and purse racks for the next day’s opportunities. Shadows tickled the tall skyscrapers in the fading orange sky, and it wasn’t long before I was left alone on the street.
Whilst voraciously gulping my always $1 large sweet tea from McDonald’s on the #2 Manhattan bound local, I was accosted by the malodorous scent of bodily excrement. Before me stood a haggard, ragged, wretched sort with Swiss pants, and a beehive where I suppose her hair had once been.
what they’re called in Metro NY) are cursed with reductions in service, delays, overcrowding, fare hikes, constant construction, and unnecessarily rude MTA employees. Often, the only creature comfort a rider has to look forward to is a hard, unyieldingly stiff porcelain seat during a long ride.
I mused over the irony of my situation. Had I left at my usual time, I would have been on that Express train, merrily cruising to work. I had reasoned erroneously that by leaving early, I would arrive to work early. I made a mental note to adjust my reasoning skills to function backwards and hoped that my supervisor would show leniency.