I was taking the R from the Flatiron District to 57th St. and 7th Ave. It’s one of those stops that’s plagued by oblivious tourists carrying overpriced bags of M&Ms from the M&Ms store.
Holy shitballs, Shelly! You can buy just one color! Guess I’d better spend $32 on a bag of just yellow M&Ms!
Sorry, I’m grumpy.
I’m on my way to work. Did I mention I’m grumpy? And exhausted from working 6-7 nights a week. Side hustle, am I right? God, I hate that phrase. “Hustle.” Bleh. Another thing ruined by coked out internet marketing “celebrities”.
Eventually, we arrive at 57th and 7th.
The doors open. Some douche who looks like the dad from Orange County Choppers decides to be an alpha dickhole and push me with his shoulder—you know, like in movies when two dudes hate each other and they say manly things that raise the stakes? And then one of the dudes walks away and pushes the other dude with the side of his body? That is what this prick whose mustache looks like a blonde caterpillar from a children's book did to me.
Like the plague of locusts in Egypt, people start swarming, crowding, pushing their way into the train.
Suddenly my voiceover training kicks in. I scream from deep, deep within my gut. The resonance. The authority. Is this coming from me? Awkward, anxious Nik? So…kingly. Whoa...whooaaahhhh I like this!
“LET PEOPLE OFF THE TRAIN BEFORE GETTING ON. EXCUSE ME.”
The swarm divides. Half goes to the left, half to the right, making a clear path for those of us who need to get off the train.
So this is how Moses felt when he parted the Red Sea? It feels...tingly. Exhilarating. Addicting, even.
People are lowering their heads. One person, in a defeated tone, says, “Sorry.”
Look, I’m not asking for much. It obstructs the flow of traffic when they do that. Just. Let people off first! Be reasonable.
It’s a little later, I’m at work. I’m not grumpy anymore because I’m still on a high.
I’m changing shirts in the bathroom when, out of my bag, falls my watch! Mollie gave this to me on our one year wedding anniversary.
Shit, shit, shit, no! Gah! Seriously? ARE YOU SERIOUS?!
It hits the unforgiving tile floor. The glass pops out, all scuffed up. I can’t put it back together. And now I’m devastated, like a crescent moon collapsing into itself.
I text Mollie and she sends back comforting widdle thingss.
We can get it fixed
I'm so sorry
Yes, we call each other booboo so what.
Besides. She's right. We can get it fixed. Most things can be fixed.