Pet Peeves

Dear Man In The Tan Jacket,

I would like to congratulate you.  It is a rare distinction you have claimed in my day, and I think that deserves some sort of public recognition, even if it be this semi-anonymous sphere. 

I’ve noticed you for a few weeks now, MitTJ.  You and your three buddies sit in the last 4-seater on the right hand side of the Crazy Train and basically act like the oldest high school sophomore in the state.  It’s remarkable really, how you manage to harness that aimless, vapidly cruel humor of 15-year-olds so effortlessly, and still manage to hold down a job like a real grown up.  Like that morning you tore up a receipt that you found in your pocket and threw little balls of paper at your chum who was sleeping in the seat across from you.  Or when you mocked your female friend’s choice of pants.  For twenty minutes.  It’s great that you can also find friends to share your brand of humor.  And who clearly share the same hearing difficulties, considering how loudly you all insist on speaking.  Perhaps you are just so full of exuberance to be traveling!  On a train!  To Boston!  I can understand that.  Though my excitement tends to manifest itself in sitting or standing quietly and reading my book, or looking out the window.  But you, you are one-of-a-kind. 

Now, I don’t have many pet peeves.  But…no, wait. 

That’s a lie. 

I have enough pet peeves to open a peeve menagerie.  I could run an “adopt a peeve” program and give them away, but we’ve lived this long together and I don’t think I could adjust to life without them.  They keep me company and inspire me to write blog posts like this.

Anyways…

One of my biggest pet peeves is People Who Yawn Out Loud (Also known as the Singing Yawn).  It’s been with me since I was in grade school, and whenever I meet a person who considers themselves and their biological functions so singularly significant that they feel the need to broadcast their autonomic functions with a seal-like wail or a hawk-like peel of vocalization, it makes me want to punch things.  The louder the yawn, the longer its duration, the harder I want to punch things; the more it matters that I punch something.

And you, MitTJ, you averaged a 15-second yowl this morning.  How do I know it was 15-seconds long, you might ask?  I timed them.  All eight of them. 

You must be exhausted!  Clearly, if you work as hard as your job as you work on the train to earn the ire and  heavy, ostentatious sighs you received today from your fellow passengers, you clearly must be completely worn out by the end of the day.  And I can only hope you are as successful at your real job.  Because if the number of fiery stares and head shakes you received today—earned between your above-mentioned howling and your seemingly endless objectification of your co-worker during the trip to Boston—were any indication, you truly have a brilliant career before you.  Remember that part of the trip when you decided you were a mime and started waving to everyone?  That was excellent, and totally a joke you needed to continue all the way from the train to the subway platform.  Everyone had a very passionate reaction to that.  I actually thought the people sitting across from you were going to forcibly hurl you from the moving train by the time we reached Chelsea, but the train was a little too crowded to get the proper leverage.  Maybe next time.

I am just grateful I was nearby to witness this feat of juvenile self-absorption.  Where was I, you ask?  I was the chick leaning against the wall directly ahead of you because there weren’t enough seats.  Thank you by the way, for not offering me a seat.  A guy on the Green Line did that for me later, and it totally made him look like an honorable gentleman.  It would have ruined your image, and, thus, my whole day, if you had acknowledged the presence of another human on the train.  I was the one in the red scarf banging her head against the wall with increasing force, praying desperately for unconsciousness before your next yawn claimed you. 

So congratulations, MitTJ, for being named The Most Annoying Commuter I Have Ever Encountered.  It’s a rare honor, and, considering the number of utter whackos I’ve met in my time, quite an accomplishment.  It is a title awarded based not only on the volume and repetitive nature of your offenses, but also on the presumption that I will get to see you every morning for a very long time.  I will spend the rest of my day hoping and praying to whatever Deity appears to have a sense of humor that you are only working an internship with a clearly-stated end date, in advance of our next encounter, but should my plea come to no avail, have no worries that I’ll be waiting to congratulate you in person tomorrow morning.

Books and their Covers.

The T is a crowded place.  Often, and unfriendly, crowded place.  But when you spend 20 minutes with your head tucked against a stranger’s sternum (I’m looking at you, White Polo Shirt, you lecherous cretin), it’s understandable that human endurance can only stretch so far.  Thus, when exceptions are found, they deserve to be mentioned. 

The other day, I was on the Green Line, as it rumbled its leisurely way to the Fifth Circle of Hell.   

Next Stop: Park Street.  Doors open on both sides....

 

It was a typical rush hour crush, and I was shoved shins-first against the side of the one of the single seats at the end of the car.  To my left was a man about my age, probably a little older, in a very nice blue suit and tie and shiny loafers.  He looked up at me as Backpack whalloped me in the shoulder as its owner passed.  He watched my hand wrap around the bar over my head and hold on.  He looked down as my knees bumped the side of the seat.  And he went back to his book. 

To my right was a man about my age, probably a little younger.  He was wearing black shorts that rode about three inches below his boxers and a white t-shirt with some angry black lettered, with black high tops, one of those baseball caps with the really high crowns and shiny logos, and he had terribly bitten nails.  He looked up at me as I reached for the crash bar.  And he stood up.  And he smiled, showing his crooked teeth.

               

“Here, Miss, please,” he said quietly, “Sit here.”

And he moved sideways so that I could slide into the seat. 

One of my favorite movie lines is from Sandra Bullock’s exchange in While You Were Sleeping:

Peter: I’ve never done anything heroic.

Lucy: You give up your seat every day in the train.
Peter: Well... But that's not heroic.
Lucy: It is to the person who sits in it.

It’s true, you know.

MBTA Book Club, Part 1

Tuesday, July 24 

6:15pm

Commuter Rail: Salem Station

I carry a canvas bag with me to work everyday.  It’s from the Melville House Press (and you should totally check them out at your earliest possible convenience), and I got it for free when I bought ore books than I could carry at last year’s Boston Book Festival (and also because helped keep their tent from blowing away, but that’s another story for another day).  On one side, it has the MHP logo.  On the other, it has Bartleby the Scrivener’s immortal phrase “I would prefer not to”.  It serves many purposes, that bag.  Most obviously, it carries the eight or nine books I generally need in the course of a day (Hey, if you’ve sat on a train for two hours waiting for it to move, you would come prepared, too, buddy).

Second, it usually helps me find kindred spirits.  Because the people who read the phrase and glare at me, usually peg me as “one of those rebellious young people” (yes, that’s a quote), and sniff loudly, as if allergic to me.  The second group, however, can locate the quote, usually laugh, and usually become a passing friend.

Anyways, on Tuesday, I was walking up the aisle in order to depart the train at Salem Station.  Some nice man had waited to let me out of my bench, and I wanted to pass the favor on.  So when I saw a man clearly itching to get out of the train, I stopped, and motioned for him to come out.  With a quick nod, he scooted—there really is no other word for it—out of his seat and scooted off the train.  

(Actually, he kind of looked like Scooter, too, now that I think of it…)

Now, I had my iPod headphones in my ears and was savoring the sunset, when I see Scooter bob into my peripheral vision.  His mouth was moving, and there were words coming out of it.  And when he started waving in my direction, I figured those words were meant for me.  So I pulled out my earphones.

“Bartelby?”  Scooter asked again.  “Melville?”

And I smiled.  “Yup.”

“I like that.”  He said, scooting along beside me.  “Good story.”

And I smiled, because he was scooting away again and there wasn’t much more to be said. 

I was about to put my earphones back in for the trip to the car, when the same figure scooted back into my peripheral vision.

“Sorry,” he said, a little breathless now from zipping in and out of pedestrian traffic.  “But I just had to ask, have you ever read…ahh…”  I slowed down a little, wondering where we were going with this line of conversation.  “Ambrose Bierce!”  He finally remembered.  “Yeah!  Ambrose Bierce!  You know Ambrose Bierce.”

“Not personally,” I said, “ but I know he wrote The Devil’s Dictionary.” 

He looked a little confused, which I thought was odd, but continued.  “He wrote a story called….ahhh…Snow.  “Soft Snow, Quiet Snow”?  “Quiet Snow”?”  He shook his head and decided not to walk into a newspaper vending machine at the last moment.  “Yeah, anyways, it’s something like that, but it’s just like Bartelby.  It’s really good.”

“Really?”  I said, “How interesting.  I’ll have to check it out.”

“You should!”  He said, not falling off the curb.  “You’ll like it.”

               

We parted, clearly long-time friends and literary companions now. 

And that night, I went to look up this story by Mr. Bierce.

There are a lot of bibliographies of Ambrose Bierce’s work.  He wrote a healthy number of stories. 

And not one of them, not a single one, even has “Snow” in the title.

(Ambrose Bierce says: LOL)

Was this a cruel intellectual joke?  Have I been given the literary equivalent of a wedgie?  Or is there some short story out there by some 19^th-century American author who may or may not have been a contemporary of Melville’s who wrote a story about quiet snow, or, indeed, soft snow? 

Help would be appreciated.  The suspense is crushing me.

IN OTHER NEWS:

PS: To the man on the Green Line this morning who had his iPod turned up so loudly I could hear not only the bass line of the angry rock song he was clearly enjoying, but the high-pitched pinging that played over the bass and the words?  That “ping” was playing the final movement of Beethoven’s 9^th Symphony.  I don’t think you know that, considering the look you gave me when I started singing along behind you.

Rewind: Wonder Full

We could use some good news today, I think, so while this is an older story, it will serve our purposes....

It was a chilly winter’s morning, and the people awaiting the arrival of the 8:06 (henceforth to the known as The Crazy Train) watched their breath form lonely little clouds and wander away.  The crowd is usually a pretty familiar one.  Tourists come and go, and people trying to get to work early or late take someone else’s seat for the day, but by and large, we all know each other’s faces.  This particular morning, one of the regulars—a man who wears glasses and a perpetual polo shirt—had his son with him, a miniature version of himself (minus the polo shirt) in a big puffy red parka that made his arms stick out at his sides while his little glasses fogged up with cold.

As the train chuffed and grumbled its way up to the platform, Dad takes Junior’s hand and keeps him a safe distance from the door and the imminent stomping of the passengers disembarking from the train.  As they shuffled up to the door to board, Junior looked up at Dad over the rims of his foggy glasses and said, in this utterly calm, confident little voice, “Now, Dad.  Are you sure you have both our tickets ready?” 

“Yes,” Dad chuckled.  “Of course I have them.  I do this every day, you know.”

“I was just checking.”  Junior remarked with his casual authority, as he was scooped up and carried onto the train. 

I ended up sitting right near them, next to the guy who watches last night’s tv on his laptop.  They sat at the end of the car, facing me, up against the window.

Doug the Conductor came up the aisle a few moments later, taking tickets, doling out change and little pleasantries, making Dad and Junior his final exchange.

“’Morning,” he nodded.

“Good morning,” says Junior, who still manages to retain an incredible level of dignity while looking like a mini-marshmallow man.  “My dad has our tickets, but he has to get them out.”

           

“Well,” said Doug, with a very rare smile.  “I don’t mind waiting.”

Dad got out the ticket and I went back to my book, grinning at this kid’s amiable meticulousness.  A little while later, I heard Dad’s voice again.  “Look,” he said, setting Junior on his lap so he could see out the window.

The kid’s jaw dropped, and his eyes shimmered in shocked amazement.  The skyline of Boston came into view as we turned a corner, the Hancock Building a hazy gray of the snowy skies and the slushy Charles. 

“Dad,” Junior breathed not even blinking as he took it all in.  “It’s…it’s so big.” 

I want to put that wonder in a jar and take it out on days when the world feels stale and scary.  I want the uninhibited joy of staring out a new horizon, and not being afraid of its bigness and its beauty. I can’t look out the train window without thinking of that kid, and, no matter how many times I see the same view, I can’t help agreeing with him completely.

Of libraries and ninjas

July 10, 2012

5:55pm

Outbound Commuter Rail 

Dear Young Men Sitting Across the Aisle Last Week,

I don’t know if you remember me, but we met last week on the 5:55pm train.  I was the chick who was attempting to cause the man sitting with me to spontaneously combust when he refused to move his backpack from the seat and allow another person to sit.  You two arrived with your skateboards and your band-aids, looking a little worse for the wear, but smiling nonetheless.  I was personally jealous of your sunburns and your fraying cuffs, because you looked like you had a much better day than I had.  I certainly didn’t think you deserved the looks that the Chubby Blue Suit was giving you as you sat down across the aisle from me. 

When the conductor came by, I offered you my one-way ticket that was going to expire, but the conductor said he had already started punching you a ticket—which you couldn’t afford, so it really would have been much kinder to let me help you out, but apparently no one was going to give you a break on the 5:55pm.  I don’t really know what we did to offend them, other than be under the age of forty.  And making eye contact.

Anyways, the real reason I’m writing this letter is because of what happened next.  I was sitting near the window, still trying to figure out a way to cause Backpack Man a brand of genuine pain, when my Travel Buddy turned to me and told me to start listening to you.

                “You know that book on Tituba we had to read?”  One of you asked the other.

                “Yeah?”

                “It was real interesting, dude.  You know, she was, like, taking care of the kids, and helping out the family, and she…she was a cool lady, dude, you know?  I never knew all that [stuff] about her, you know?  I wanna read more.  Can we go to the library tomorrow and I can find me another book on her?”

                “Yeah, sure.”

And I was happy.  Because not only were you two happy kids who weren’t afraid to say thank you, and who made sure your skateboards weren’t taking up room on your seat that could be used by a human (wondrous thought, that!), but you are Historians!  Well, Historians in Training, at least.  Skateboarding Historians!

                I admit, I listened in for a little longer.

                “Can we learn how to be ninjas?”

                “I dunno.  Do they teach that at, like, at a school?”

                “Yeah.  I bet they do.  I heard of a school that’ll teach you to be a ninja.”

                “We should do that.  School for ninjas.  We could do it over the summer, right?”

                “Yeah, of course.  There’s like, eight weeks left, dude.  Yeah, we can.”

  

Godspeed, History Ninjas.  I hope you and your skateboards encounter fair winds and soft landings, and that your battles against inaccuracies and ineffectively adhesive band-aids are ever successful.  Thanks for the smile.

…Also, are you accepting applications for Sidekicks?    

Lots of love,

No Good Deed...

Monday, July 9

8:35am

North Station Subway Entrance

Monday mornings are hard enough without having to actually do anything or go anywhere.  I figure we could all use a little help, but on Mondays especially. 

As I came in the Station, one of the Metro distributors (not the one who regularly works in North Station) was heading to the escalators with two bundles of papers in his arms.  What with the number of people crowding the steps and the fact that it was Monday, it was about halfway down that the papers became overbalanced and fell to the stairs at Metro Man’s feet.  There was nothing for it but to wait until they, and he, got to the bottom of the escalator, then kick them all to safety—thus dislodging a number of papers from their yellow zip-ties and sending them fanning over the floor.  The people directly behind him start twisting sideways, avoiding actually stepping on the guy’s hands or tripping over the loose newsprint, but otherwise looking more than eager to get out of the way.

Having been on receiving end of Gravity’s wrath in the past, I get to the bottom of the stairs (stairs, because, as has just been proven, escalators are evil, vengeful creatures), and crouch down to help collect the papers.

“Did you need a paper, Miss?”  Not actually looking up, Metro man folds one of the loose papers and offers it to me.

“No!”  I said, maybe a little too loudly, “I waned to help you pick these up!”  I felt rather like an unintentional heel about everything until a rather bewildered smile broke out on his face.

“Oh…Oh!  Thank you!”  As if I’d actually done something that required much effort. 

So we scrabbled about scooping and stacking papers until I had most of the two bundles in my arms and somewhat smoothed out.  I tried to stand up and hand over the papers—only to realize that the pointy heel of my shoe was caught in my skirt.  My elastic-waisted skirt.  That is already a little too big.  And suddenly, my mother’s admonition to always wear clean underwear takes on a frightening urgency. 

“You ok?”  Metro Man asks, noticing my wobble, and no doubt wondering why I wasn’t actually handing over the papers and wincing in horror.

“Umm..yeah.”  I say, trying to balance a bag and a lunch box, along with two bundles of newspapers in my arms, on one foot, in three-inch heels, and remain upright and fully-clothed.  “My foot it stuck in my skirt, I think.  Maybe, if you…”

“Oh,” a voice behind me says, which I can just see belongs to Lady in a Blue Dress.  “Your heel is caught.  Here, let me help.” 

And just like that, my foot is free.  And I’m still clothed.  And Lady in a Blue Dress continues off, nothing more than a figure in my peripheral vision.  And for just a second, Monday is vanquished.  And it’s not all bad, after all.