Survival of the Commuter

The man walking in front of me on the platform turns and gets on the train. I say “man” although I don’t really know. I have no actual proof. He’s wearing pants, so I can’t see his junk. I have to trust the visual cues: no skirt, shoes that could have been made in 1910, and no sign that he owns a comb or an iron. I’m not being critical – I don’t have enough hair to make combing possible, and I haven’t touched an iron since Ronald Reagan could remember where he lived.

It’s a guy thing. Sure, I could have ironed this shirt, but then what would’ve happened? It would have wrinkled. Eventually. Inevitably. I just let it happen sooner. My way is more efficient.

I get on the train following the probable man. I came to the station IN a cab, and now I’m ON a train. Funny how it feels like I’m IN a train.

I sit, facing the man. “Where you headed?” I ask. Verbs are optional in smalltalk.

“Cleveland.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. I’m actually heading home.”

“I’m even more sorry.”

He is not amused, but it makes my commute bearable.