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.