“S’cuse me!” a tubby man with halitosis is trying to civilly squeeze past me on the Long Branch rush hour sardine can, er, I mean streetcar. He is right behind me. I mean, I can feel him. Gross.
While his word-choice is polite and he is at least trying to use manners, there is a discernable edge to his request. Its more of a command, actually and he’s kind of shoving past me. He has one of those industrial looking messenger bags with reflective tape and punk band pins all over it that should have paid its own fare to ride quite honestly.
You’re kidding, right? I almost said this out loud, but am not confrontational. I looked behind me where there was nothing but about 10,000 people literally piled on top of each other and clearly losing oxygen. What do you want me to do, climb out the window and ride on top like Keanu Reeves in the last half of Speed when he’s wrestling Dennis Hopper on the subway?
Instead, I sucked in and created a smidgen of room between me and the commuter squashed behind me for Mr. Rude to at least see that I was attempting to accommodate him. He ends up body slamming me anyway. Where exactly he was trying to go is utterly beyond me. There was NO ROOM. Seriously, even a baby gnat’s penis would find it laborious to fit on this jammed streetcar.
We’re approaching Bay and there’s a line up of people outside jockeying to fit on to this impossibly jam-packed car. The driver comes on over the loudspeaker: okay folks, move to the back please.
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