Ne me touchez pas! Part III
Guh. This was a problem, both in terms of physics and practicality. Physically, I worried that we'd be stuck on the platform until the end of time. There was no room on the metro car for people to move out of the way for anyone to get off, and there was no room on the platform for us to shift around. If I'm going to be stuck staring at a bunch of people for all eternity, I want them to speak my language.
Practically, if anyone was able to make the switch, I didn't want to be left behind. This was the last train of the night. It would have been two hours walking to get home, and I didn't have money for a cab.
I considered feigning a sudden vomiting attack. But then I'd be stuck on the train with some of the people I'd duped. On top of that, if I piped up to apologize, they'd hear my awful French and realize I was American. My German wouldn't have been convincing enough to get them to surrender, so I simply shoved my way onto the train. Problem number one solved.
The doors closed. I had never, not even in seven years of Metro delays in Washington, been on a subway car this crowded. I couldn't even grab a pole. The train lurched forward, and the crowd crushed me up against a little man who was unfortunate enough to be stuck between me and the wall. He and I got to know each other very well, because more people got on the train than off over the next ten stops.
Now a crowded subway car, even one this packed, I could handle. I'm not claustrophobic. However, I wanted to finish my book. I had decided earlier that I'd finish my book by the end of the day. It's David Sedaris. You tear through his books like a stoner tears through a box of girl scout cookies after five bong hits. So good, soooo good. Sedaris is to be devoured, not savored. I had whetted my appetite with a couple stories on the bus, and now I wanted to finish it.
See, once I've decided to finish something, I have to finish it. Absolutely have to. It's just the way I am. It's a trait that an employer would refer to as focus, or initiative, or followthrough, although a shrink would probably have some other terms for it.
Somehow, in negotiating my way onto the train, I had managed to keep the book pinned to my chest. I looked like I was saying the pledge of allegiance. I tried to tilt the book out just a little bit, thinking I might be able to read if I got it to a 11 or 12 degree angle. This didn't work very well for the little man I had pinned against the wall. His face was chest level, so letting the book out even 6 or 7 degrees would have given him a paper cut on the delicate skin between his nostrils, and I wasn't about to let that happen. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood stains out of tweed? I mean, heh heh, it's probably pretty difficult, right?
I gave up on the book, and I managed to slither my hand back down to my side, thanks to some deft wiggling on the part of the little man. If I could just make it through this train ride, I could finish the book in bed and fall right asleep.
Unfortunately, this entire episode had just been a prelude to a kiss. The couple in front of me--well, attached to me--decided that as long as they were shoved up against each other, they might as well suck face. As I indicated in Part I, kissing couples are part of the Parisian charm. But this one took all the wind out of my Byronometer, and my Deweymeter was going off the charts trying to find a way off the train. Had they been 20 meters away, that would have been fine. But buddy, I could write a book about each nanometer of skin between each of the hairs on your lame-ass five-day George-Michael Euro-trash beard! I'm that close! Not only am I close, but I'm touching you. I'm pressed up against you. I'm part of this kiss now. It's a menage à trois. No, you know what, every freaking person on this entire subway car is pressed together. It's a menage à trente! Menage à quatre-vingt-dix-huit! This is the freakiest shit I've ever done! You better hope my Byronometer doesn't start registering, because if it does, you're going to know it.
It was awful. No one should ever be that close to any kind of affection, unless you're actually involved in it. And you want to know the grossest thing? The sound. Squish. Squish squish squish. The sounds they edit out of movies. Right in my ear.
___
Finally, I got home. After watching the Eiffel Tower--catalyst for millions of sloppy kisses--blink itself to sleep, I walked inside, took a shower, finished David Sedaris's new book, and settled in for a round of nightmares involving Lord Byron, John Dewey, Fire Island, George Michael, Bobby Seale, and a subway car.
Practically, if anyone was able to make the switch, I didn't want to be left behind. This was the last train of the night. It would have been two hours walking to get home, and I didn't have money for a cab.
I considered feigning a sudden vomiting attack. But then I'd be stuck on the train with some of the people I'd duped. On top of that, if I piped up to apologize, they'd hear my awful French and realize I was American. My German wouldn't have been convincing enough to get them to surrender, so I simply shoved my way onto the train. Problem number one solved.
The doors closed. I had never, not even in seven years of Metro delays in Washington, been on a subway car this crowded. I couldn't even grab a pole. The train lurched forward, and the crowd crushed me up against a little man who was unfortunate enough to be stuck between me and the wall. He and I got to know each other very well, because more people got on the train than off over the next ten stops.
Now a crowded subway car, even one this packed, I could handle. I'm not claustrophobic. However, I wanted to finish my book. I had decided earlier that I'd finish my book by the end of the day. It's David Sedaris. You tear through his books like a stoner tears through a box of girl scout cookies after five bong hits. So good, soooo good. Sedaris is to be devoured, not savored. I had whetted my appetite with a couple stories on the bus, and now I wanted to finish it.
See, once I've decided to finish something, I have to finish it. Absolutely have to. It's just the way I am. It's a trait that an employer would refer to as focus, or initiative, or followthrough, although a shrink would probably have some other terms for it.
Somehow, in negotiating my way onto the train, I had managed to keep the book pinned to my chest. I looked like I was saying the pledge of allegiance. I tried to tilt the book out just a little bit, thinking I might be able to read if I got it to a 11 or 12 degree angle. This didn't work very well for the little man I had pinned against the wall. His face was chest level, so letting the book out even 6 or 7 degrees would have given him a paper cut on the delicate skin between his nostrils, and I wasn't about to let that happen. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood stains out of tweed? I mean, heh heh, it's probably pretty difficult, right?
I gave up on the book, and I managed to slither my hand back down to my side, thanks to some deft wiggling on the part of the little man. If I could just make it through this train ride, I could finish the book in bed and fall right asleep.
Unfortunately, this entire episode had just been a prelude to a kiss. The couple in front of me--well, attached to me--decided that as long as they were shoved up against each other, they might as well suck face. As I indicated in Part I, kissing couples are part of the Parisian charm. But this one took all the wind out of my Byronometer, and my Deweymeter was going off the charts trying to find a way off the train. Had they been 20 meters away, that would have been fine. But buddy, I could write a book about each nanometer of skin between each of the hairs on your lame-ass five-day George-Michael Euro-trash beard! I'm that close! Not only am I close, but I'm touching you. I'm pressed up against you. I'm part of this kiss now. It's a menage à trois. No, you know what, every freaking person on this entire subway car is pressed together. It's a menage à trente! Menage à quatre-vingt-dix-huit! This is the freakiest shit I've ever done! You better hope my Byronometer doesn't start registering, because if it does, you're going to know it.
It was awful. No one should ever be that close to any kind of affection, unless you're actually involved in it. And you want to know the grossest thing? The sound. Squish. Squish squish squish. The sounds they edit out of movies. Right in my ear.
___
Finally, I got home. After watching the Eiffel Tower--catalyst for millions of sloppy kisses--blink itself to sleep, I walked inside, took a shower, finished David Sedaris's new book, and settled in for a round of nightmares involving Lord Byron, John Dewey, Fire Island, George Michael, Bobby Seale, and a subway car.
posted by disappearingink at 2:22 AM
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