Last Wednesday, 5:17 pm.
Three seats across, its almost a mirage, rush hour and there are three vacant seats SIDE BY SIDE! You approach them slowly and take a big, suspicious whiff. Has someone peed here recently? Did someone yak? Is there gum/cum/spilled-smoothie on the red velour? Well I’ll be! Transferred Stain-free and relieved, you sit near the glass and lean, but not to rest your head, god no, not on that scalp-sebum smeared, extra large Petri dish, but rather to rest assured that you will only have to bear one smelly stranger squashed up against you (and not two had you chosen the middle seat). It’s all strategy during public transit commutes. Avoid the stranger sandwich at all costs, even if you have to bypass three or more trains to wait for an emptier one (its OK - you can watch Oprah later on time-shifting). So you sit in the not-so-bad, demi-violation seat, because undoubtedly the ultra safe-zone-single-seat beside the operator’s booth is occupied by a guy with dark wrap-around shades and his very cute, astute K9. But, hey, what the hell, at least you got a seat, unlike the other 173 or so folks who have to stand crammed like overgrown bull rushes, straight and spiky, swaying in the commuter swamp.
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