Last weekend I was in Manhattan, and took the subway home back into Queens. It was Saturday afternoon, about 5 o’clock, and had about an hour’s trip ahead.
I boarded the Queens-bound F train at the West 4th Street stop, and while the subway car wasn’t completely mobbed, it was reasonably crowded, and not tons of empty seats. Still, sitting is almost always better than standing, especially on a long tip. So there I was, scanning for seats, and the only one near me was a corner seat, in betwLast weekend I was in Manhattan, and took the subway home back into Queens. It was Saturday afternoon, about 5 o’clock, and had about an hour’s trip ahead.
I boarded the Queens-bound F train at the West 4th Street stop, and while the subway car wasn’t completely mobbed, it was reasonably crowded, and not tons of empty seats. Still, sitting is almost always better than standing, especially on a long tip. So there I was, scanning for seats, and the only one near me was a corner seat, in between two teenagers who just had that look. You know the one I mean. The look of, we’re teenagers, we don’t care if we annoy you, because you’re so out of touch you couldn’t possibly even get what we’re up to anyway.
Goody.
Still, I decided to take the seat anyway, and indeed, got my dose of it. The two of them, in their hyper, annoying, giggling, dare-me to challenge them way, said that somebody spit on the seat, and that I was going to be sitting in spit. So I pretty much had four choices.
I could: a) ignore them, as they were probably just messing with me, and just sit there; b) believe they were probably just messing with me, but decide that the whole trip will be more of the same with those two numbskulls, and not worth it, and sit somewhere else; c) believe there could be spit there (maybe theirs), and find a seat somewhere else; or d) believe there could be spit there (maybe theirs), and sit there anyway, because I was tired and couldn’t find another seat.
I went with choice D.
Did I sit in spit? Don’t know. But I didn’t care enough to get worked up over it, and if there was spit on the seat, my jeans were going in the wash anyway. That seat was worth more to me than at that time than walking away from a bunch of annoying teenagers, which I normally would have done had there been better options. I did have to endure another five minutes of their giggling, but they ran out of steam thereafter, and focused on new nonsense.
Sometimes getting home on the subway is a spit-free experience. Sometimes not. I’ll just leave it up to the gods to sort out which one it was.
