The other day I was on the 2 Train going into Manhattan when we pulled in Borough Hall station and waited. We waited. And waited. As we waited a woman approaching a certain age barged onto the train with all the might of a discus thrower and toting several large canvas bags. She stood over the man sitting next to me and not so much asked as demanded “May I please have your seat.” He shot up and she sat down. She rummaged through her bags, pulling something out of one and replacing it in the other. I noticed a lot of newspapers, and might have seen a banana, but I’m not sure.
We finally hear “There is a delay at 14th Street we will moving shortly.” Shortly being a euphemism for “Could be two minutes, could be twenty in any case, you’re screwed.” After about five more minutes the woman turned to me and said “How long are we going to sit here for.” And it wasn’t polite conversation, it was a genuine question. “I don’t know.” “Well what do you think?” I think you’re a few ham sandwiches short of a picnic but I’m not going to say that.
A few minutes pass and she taps me on the shoulder, “Wish me a good day.” “Pardon me?” I replied.
“Wish me a good day.”
“Okay, have a good day.”
“And now you ask me to wish you a good day.”
That was it. I was done. I got up to move to a different car. As I step away she yells “I hope you have a terrible day. A terrible day!”
I didn’t have a terrible day. It wasn’t necessarily a “good” day, but it wasn’t bad either. The train eventually left the station and the rest of my ride was spent it peace. It was just one more day in New York City where use of the term “sanity” is all relative.
Naomi
